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Makemieland Memorials; 

WITH 

Eastern Shore Wild Flowers 
and Other Wild Things 



BY 

REV. L. P. BO WEN, D. D., 

Author of "The Days of Makemie," "The Old Preacher's Story," 
"The Daughter of the Covenant," Etc. 



Whittet & Shkppbrson, Printers, 
Richmond, Va. 






ifwtta) 

FEB 1^1913 



CONTENTS. 



PROSE 

Page 

An Appreciation, by J. S. McMaster, Esq., 5 

Dawn and Mid-Day, 55 

Makemie Dedication, 9 

Postley Dedication, 26 

Prophet of the Bays, 43 

Rehoboth, The Mother Church, 65 

POETRY 

Anne of Beverly, 113 

Another Family Gathering, 142 

At Evening Time, 203 

Black Mammy's Lullaby, 123 

Blue Monday Tabooed 164 

Clerical Acrobats, 116 

Children of the Evergreens, 134 

Carrie's Pets, 145 

Dead in Dixie, 124 

De Weddin', 192 

Eastern Shore Ferneries 87 

Eastern Shore in the West, 149 

Eastern Shore to Her Boys, 172 

Foreword — At Seventy-seven, y^ 

Francis Makemie, 75 

Facing the Sunrise, 153 

Francis to Naomi, 169 

Grand Epic — Redemption of Mother's Lane, 184 

Hickory Nuttin' Days, 109 

In that Old Pew 79 

Indian Summer Love, 168 

In the Mirror, 200 



4 Contents. 

Page 

Methodism Booming in Pocomoke — Nelson Murray, 90 

My Madonna 147 

Maryland Venison, 162 

Makemie to Pierce Bray, 173 

Mother's Day, 176 

Mosquito Isms, 179 

Makemie on His Ear, 198 

Naomi to Francis, 171 

Old Rehoboth's Home Song, 88 

Old George, 106 

Old Caroline no 

One of Her Standbys, 136 

Our Mother, 160 

Oysterdom Antique and Modern, 165 

Olympus and Eden, 194 

Pine Shats, 130 

Pawpaw Paradise, 133 

Rehoboth to Her Kid, 84 

Song of the Rehoboth Volunteers, 112 

Shad! ! 193 

To Our John 82 

Tribute, A, To Daniel C. Hudson, 92 

The Last Mosquito, 95 

The Lady Mary, 98 

The Exile's Song, 100 

The Cool Spring, - 119 

The Hymns they Loved, 127 

To the Elect Ladies — Miss Agness and Miss Elizabeth,. . 137 

The Queen of Acchawmache, 139 

Tramping it, 156 

Voice of the Pines, — To Miss S. P. B., of Drummondtown, 107 
Voyage on the Pocomoke with Home Mission Magmate,. .180 

William Stevens 102 

We Children, 118 

When Ellen Went Away, 138 



AN APPRECIATION. 



THROUGH his masterpiece and best monument, 
"The Days of Makemie," published by the Pres- 
byterian Board of Publication in 1885, Dr. Bowen 
created a new interest in Rev. Francis Makemie, the chief 
founder of the Presbyterian Church in America, and 
thereby started the movement which resulted in the erec- 
tion twenty-three years later (iox>3)of the splendid granite 
monument to Makemie, in Accomac County, Virginia. 
Material for this book was gathered through much labor 
and skill from many original sources in this country and 
abroad, and much of it was obtained from the ancient 
court records of the lower Eastern Shore counties of 
Maryland and Virginia. Dr. Bowen thus acquired at 
first hands an intimate knowledge of much of the history 
of these parts of the Eastern Shore during the days 
thereon of Makemie (1683- 1708), and so greatly did it 
interest him and seem worth while that he also then 
gathered from these old Eastern Shore records and else- 
where much further data concerning the late Colonial 
and Revolutionary War period (1708-1815) which he has 
effectively used in other publications and more of which 
is already in manuscript and could yet be published under 
some title as "The Blue Bell of Rehoboth." 



6 Makemieland Memorials 

After his researches above, made when he was pastor 
of certain of the Makemie churches in that part of the 
Eastern Shore, Dr. Bowen returned to pastoral work in 
the West and far South, and when he had done much fur- 
ther ministerial and literary work there and was retiring 
from his labors and enjoying in his old age a well-de- 
served rest, was recalled in 1908 to resume his work in 
the Old Mother Church at Rehoboth, Maryland, not far 
from the Makemie Monument. Since this last return to 
the Eastern Shore, he delivered in 1908 the chief ad- 
dress at the dedication of the Makemie Monument, and 
also in 1909 delivered the chief address at the dedica- 
tion in the upper part of Worcester County, Maryland, 
of a Monument to Colonel John Postley, the first to leave 
a permanent endowment fund for the cause of public edu- 
cation in that county. Dr. Bowen has of late in addition 
to these two notable addresses, written sometimes seri- 
ously but more often for his own amusement and that 
of certain of his friends, many verses concerning Make- 
mie and his early churches and of certain people and 
events in this part of the Eastern Shore. Many of these 
verses have been published in the newspapers. 

At some of the High Schools in this section there 
have been lately established permanently endowed prizes 
known as "The Old Home Prizes," given each year to 
that member of the graduating class in each school who 
writes the best essay on some topic pertaining to the 
past, present or future of the Maryland, Delaware and 
Virginia Peninsula, commonly known as "The Eastern 



Makemieland Memorials 7 

Shore," and long known as "The Land of Gentlemen," 
and the lower part of which is now generally known as 
'The Land of the Evergreens." These essays have been 
well received and are filed for preservation in the school 
libraries. 

Several of Dr. Bowen's friends lately suggested to 
him that his two historical addresses above and some of 
his recent verses ought to be published in permanent 
form, as a further addition to the permanent literature 
of the Eastern Shore and as an aid in the Old Home 
Prize idea. Whilst willing that the above addresses in 
prose be thus published, he objected to having further 
published any of his verses, declaring that, notwithstand- 
ing the favorable reception they had already generally 
received, he regarded them as merely playful rhymes 
and not as poetry ; that he is "a poetaster for the fun 
of it." 

Notwithstanding this criticism of his own work in 
verse many others thought differently and believed that 
much good, along the lines above suggested and as show- 
ing a further appreciation of Dr. Bowen, will be accom- 
plished by its publication. 

In "The Days of Makemie" we see Dr. Bowen's work 
in his prime in middle life ; in this latest book we see 
him in his hale and hearty and happy old age, both at 
serious work and at play, and in all we see him always 
trying in this and other ways to do his best for the ad- 
vancement of the Kingdom of God and of the Eastern 
Shore, his beloved native section. 



8 Makemieland Memorials 

It is our sincere wish that this little book will be 
received by the public in the spirit in which it was writ- 
ten and published and will help at least to accomplish 
some of the aims above indicated. 

The Rev. Littleton Purnell Bowen, D. D., its author, 
is affectionately known by many of us who know him 
as "the Grand Old Man and Poet Laureate of Makemie- 
land," and our desire is to continue to show our apprecia- 
tion of him while he is living, rather than to reserve most 
of it until after he is dead. 

John Stevenson McMaster. 

Jersey City, N. J." June I, 19 10. 










\'> ' 




Makemie Monument. 
Unveiled on May 14, 1908, at Holden's Creek, Accomack County, Virginia. 



Inscription on the Monument: 

ERECTED IN GRATITUDE TO GOD 
And in grateful remembrance of His servant and minister 

3Frattrts IHakpmtr, 

who was born in Ramelton, County Donegal Ireland, A. D. 
1658 (?), was educated at Glasgow University, Scotland, and 
came as an ordained Evangelist to the American Colonies A. D. 
1683, at the request of Col. William Stevens, of Rehoboth, Mary- 
land. A devoted and able preacher of our Lord's Gospel, he 
labored faithfully and freely for twenty-five years in Maryland, 
Virginia, the Barbadoes and elsewhere. A Christian gentleman, 
an enterprising man of affairs, a public-spiritedi citizen, a dis- 
tinguished advocate of Religious Liberty, for which he suffered 
under the Governor of New York, he is especially remembered as 

THE CHIEF FOUNDER OF ORGANIZED PRESBYTERY IN AMERICA, 

A. D. I/O6, AND AS THE FIRST MODERATOR OF THE 

GENERAL PRESBYTERY. 

He died at his home, whose site is nearby, in Accomack 
County, Virginia, in the summer of A. D. 1708, and was buried 
in his family cemetery, located on this spot, now recovered from 
a long desecration and' dedicated with this monument to his 
memory, A. D. 1908, by the American "Presbyterian Historical 
Society." seated at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 



Makemieland Memorials, 



ADDRESS 



At the Dedication of the Monument to Francis 

Makemie on Holden's Creek, Accomac 

County, Virginia, May 14, 1908. 

OVERLOOKING thoughtful Loch Swilley, the 
Lake of Shadows; standing by the picturesque 
windmill at Ramelton, in sight of Stewart Castle 
and the old Meeting House, its roof thatched with 
heather from the Donegal hills ; his gaze turned westward 
in the track of the explorers, under the spell of Pisgah's 
visions or the romantic Scotch second-sight; did some 
Celtic Moses catch glimpses in the sun-setting of "A 
good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and 
depths that spring out of the valleys and the hills ; a land 
of wheat and barley and vines and figtrees and pome- 
granates ; a land of olive oil and honey ; a land where they 
shall eat bread without scarceness (and clams and oysters 
and canvas-backs and diamond-backs) and where when 
they have eaten and are full, they shall bless the Lord 
for the good land He had given them?" 

This Presbyterian Moses of 250 years ago, was he 
shown from the Presbyterian Xebo the new Land of 
Promise, all the land of Giliad unto Dan and all Xaphtali 
and the land of Ephraim and Manasseh and all the land 
of Judah unto the utmost sea and the South; and there 



io Makemieland Memorials 

upon the frontiers of the great Canaan Continent did he 
catch the unwanted syllables, Chingoteague, Assateague, 
Pungoteague, Watchapreague, Matomkin, Occahannock, 
Pocomoke, Accomack, Matchatank, Chesapeake, and a 
hundred more reverberations as musical as Homer's? 

Turn your gaze nearer home, rapt seer. There close 
to your Mount of Vision and certainly in the Divine 
Councils, saw you the blue-eyed, fair-haired, light-com- 
plexioned strippling who is thinking of America too ; 
listening to the Supernatural, in perilous times ; defying 
Bishop and cruel Monarch, and ordained by Presbyterial 
hands that are galled with chains? Saw you that young 
hero, confering not with flesh and blood, turning from 
home and the loved, challenging the mythical wilderness, 
threading the dim streams on his sloop Tabitha, reining 
Pony Button through gloomy pines and the cypress jun- 
gles, ministering to the scattered elect of God, planting 
an organized force which in the predestined days was 
to illumine forty-six great commonwealths ! 

Who my Donegal Moses was I cannot tell you, un- 
less it was the boy's rugged pastor at Ramelton, true 
and tried old Thomas Drummond ; he whom the boy at 
four years old had seen ejected from the pulpit in 1661 
and driven forth to starve ; whom again at six years old 
in 1664 he had seen arrested, excommunicated and with 
three other godly ministers imprisoned for six years at 
LifTord. Amid scenes like these young Francis grew 
and came to Christ in his teens. He knows the jeopardv 
he is to face. In 1675 he departs for Glasgow University 
during Scotland's bloody "killing time" and there wit- 
nesses the rage of the persecutor and the fidelity of 
Scotia's martvrs. 

When in 1680 the scarred veteran Drummond vouches 



Makemieland Memorials 11 

for the piety and backbone of the youth before the heroic 
Presbytery of Laggan, we would love to fancy the proud 
pastor enjoying fond visions of the mission and achieve- 
ments of the young probationer in the days to come. 

I have a fine Calvinistic thought for you now. Our 
story is a story of the Infinite Ruler. Persecutions by 
the Anglican Church are raging, yet a letter written by 
an adherant of that church for his Presbyterian neigh- 
bors brings the Founder of our great American Presby- 
terianism across the seas. On the 29th of December, 
1680, that letter of the Colonial Official and big-hearted 
Episcopalian is read before the Presbytery and God has 
young Francis there to hear ! What were his dreams^ 
that night ? 

Brethren, put the shoes off your feet, for it is holy 
ground. You can hardly take a step on this lower Penin- 
sula without touching sacred dust. The cattle have been 
herding on the sepulchres of the saints. All honor to 
noble William Stevens ! Yonder on his ancient Rehoboth 
Plantation patented with its Bible name way back in 1665, 
his name upon the slab still legible, that model Colonial 
officer sleeps. At his house in 1672 the great English 
Quaker, George Fox, preached. The same year, by ap- 
pointment of the Grand Jury, with its Scotch Presby- 
terian foreman, David Brown, religious services were 
held by Robert Maddux — whoever he was. The broad- 
minded proprietor welcomed all Christians. And there, 
in that centre, the Father of the first American Presby- 
tery undoubtedly first landed and delivered the Inaugural. 

Was that sermon on the text from which he had 
preached before his Presbytery, April 26, 1681 : "Now 
the end of the commandment is charity out of a pure 
heart and of a good conscience?" 1 Tim. i. 5. Or was 



12 Makemieland Memorials 

it that other of his trial sermons. May 25th of the 
same year, from Matt. xi. 28: "Come unto Me all ye 
that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest." 
Or was it the sermon he preached at Burt April 2, 1682, 
the last mention of him in his native land, from Luke 
xiii. 3: "I tell you Nay, but except ye repent, ye shall 
all likewise perish?" 

In ancient days a strip of land not much larger than 
this Peninsula was chosen by the Supreme Organizer 
as the Repositary of His Oracles. In the bloody seven- 
teenth century did the same Sovereign Manager point to 
the retired Eastern Shore as the rendezvous of the Apos- 
tolic Doctrines? Thus our contemplative little Pocomoke 
claimed kinship with the streams of Caledonia, Ulster 
and Palestine, and as certainly in the Divine Counsels 
as Gihon, Pison, Hiddekel and Euphrates. 

Was the expectant Presbytery of Laggan itself upon 
the Prophetic Mount and looking westward while young 
Francis was taking his vows, giving "Distinct and posi- 
tive answers to the questions usually proposed for show- 
ing soundness in the faith, and adhering to the truth pro- 
fessed in the Reformed Churches against Popery, Armin- 
ianism, Prelacy, Erastianism, Independency, and what- 
ever else is contrary to sound doctrine ; and also a reso- 
lution to adhere to the Covenant." No false note here, 
ye loose- jointed. True grit for the Western Hemisphere ! 

Thus equipped, a young Theologue of twenty-five 
years old, to pre-empt the Continent, he plants the blue 
banner in 1683 upon American soil ; here where the quaint 
old territories with their sunny coves and green marshes 
and white beaches, and blue skies and sylvan nooks, and 
old-fashioned ways and reverence for the fathers should 
be God witnesses forever. I hear the echo of the ancient 



Makemieland Memorials 13 

Scriptures : "And he removed thence and digged another 
well, and he called the name of it Rehoboth, and he said, 
For now the Lord hath made room for us and we shall 
be fruitful in the land." — Gen. xxvi. 22. 

From the Ezcks and the Sitnahs 

In the European land, 
Came our Presbyterian fathers, 

Here and there a little band ; 
Where the welcomes of the exiles 

And the water-lilies bloom, 
They are yearning for the Gospel — 

Fair Rehoboth, there is room ! 

There the sparkle of the river 

Waits and watches for the keel, 
Which shall bring the Giliad balsams 

Sent to comfort and to heal ; 
Oh the tidings, joyous tidings — 

Far across the deep they come; 
'Tis the youthful blue-eyed Herald — 

Glad Rehoboth, there is room ! 

Yes, he comes with helmet on him 

And with Gospel sandals shod ; 
Our Makemie, brave Makemie, 

Hail, O Messenger of God ! 
Holy Church of our Redeemer 

Finding here congenial home ; 
Blessed little virgin village, 

Proud Rehoboth, there is room ! 

And two centuries and a quarter afterwards, for 
loyal thinkers, I am answering historically the question, 
Who was this Francis Makemie, dwelling successively 
on the Matchatank, at Pocomoke Town or Rehoboth, and 
on Hoklen's Creek. Amid the music of his rivers and 
the traditions of his forests, why, under the chivalrous 



14 Makemieland Memorials 

leadership of Henry McCook, Emerson Polk and John 
S. McMaster, are we dedicating this memorial, tardy and 
yet timely and in reverence, here to-day ? 

I. He who brought the Church to these shores, was 
a qualified witness-bearer; he was a man of God. I 
emphasize the title, for so was Moses and so was Elijah 
and so was David. He had tested the jewel he brought. 
Friends said, Fling away your manuscript and give us 
one of your rattling talks. But I meant that Makemie 
himself should be the foremost speaker here to-day and 
I meant to emphasize his own words. Here is a nugget 
of autobiographical gold: "Ere I received imposition of 
hands in that Scriptural and orderly separation into my 
holy and ministerial calling, I gave inquiry satisfaction 
to godly, learned and judicious men of a work of grace 
wrought in my heart at fifteen years of age, by and 
through the pains of a godly schoolmaster who used no 
small diligence in gaining tender souls to God's service 
and fear ; since which time, to the glory of His free 
grace be it spoke, I have had the sure experiences of His 
infinite and unerring wisdom to my unspeakable comfort." 
A regenerate boyhood, a consecrated manhood. To 
George Keith's flings against the Sacraments, he thus 
out of his own heart's elevations magnifies the Lord's 
Supper : "My own experiences of the grace, blessing and 
benefits of this great, special and solemn ordinance, shall 
be an unanswerable argument to me against all heretics 
in the world." There like the Beloved Disciple, he had 
leaned upon the bosom of Jesus. As one who knew, he 
declares that he will witness "to the end to the illumi- 
nating, sanctifying, mortifying, quickening, operations of 
the Holy Spirit of God in the heart of every believer, in 



Makemteland Memorials 15 

restoring the corrupted soul to the forfeited image of 
God." 

2. He was an educated preacher; not a novice; a 
workman that needed not to be ashamed. The Univer- 
sity of Glasgow and a cultured Presbytery had left their 
stamp upon mind and mission. Of his Church he rather 
boasts, "They are highly for school education, and learn- 
ing and Academical accomplishments." He interests 
himself in the new county in establishing schools and 
securing better privileges for the young. "The advan- 
tages," he says, "of early instruction is witnessed by 
experience of many godly of all ages." Thus he testifies 
for a religious education. What would we not give here 
to-day for one copy of that Catechism which he com- 
posed and scattered over these shores and whose tenets 
he was able and prompt to defend against all assailants? 
Out of our Eastrn Shore literary gardens, a Presbyterian 
Catechism was the first blossom ! 

3. Who and what was Francis Makemie? He was 
a Calvinist through and through — as erect and sturdy as 
one of the basaltic columns in the Giant's Causeway of his 
native Erin. In the book, "American Presbyterianism," 
its author, in trying to prove that our planting on this 
continent was Broad Church, knew that he must get the 
Apostle of the Chesapeake out of the way. Therefore 
he adroitly labors to minify the ability and influence of 
our Founder. It hardly seems ingenuous in the writer. 
Who corresponded and who traveled to bring together 
the Mother Presbytery? Who was its first Moderator 
and every way primus inter pares? During his twenty- 
five years in America, who came even to his shoulders? 
Dr. Briggs tries to overshadow Makemie with William 



1 6 Makemieland Memorials 

Trail, but William Trail was less than six years in 
America and left fifteen years before the Philadelphia 
Presbytery was organized. Trail was a noble specimen 
of the true-blue, living for five years just below Rehoboth 
and one of her jewels, but his presence on this continent 
was utterly forgotten until I dug his name and plantation 
out of -the dusty Somerset Records. And then, too, 
William Trail had helped to train Makemie in orthodoxy, 
ruggedest Scotch type. There is no comfort for the lax 
either in Makemie or Trail. Oh no, Dr. Briggs, the type 
of Calvinism finding its habitat here was as blue as the 
bluebells of Scotland and as adamantine as her crags. 

So we hear our Pioneer saying: "Though I owe not 
my birth to that kingdom, yet having read many of their 
books, heard several of their ministers for several 
years on all doctrines of the Christian religion, and hav- 
ing always with me their Confession of Faith and their 
Catechisms, I do declare myself fully of their sentiments 
in this (/. e., election) and all other doctrines of faith; 
and, in God's strength, I shall never swerve nor pre- 
varicate." He calls the great Genevan, "Holy Calvin." 
He tells us that in his Catechism he embodied: "The 
judgment of all my brethren, and particularly of those 
of the Westminster Assembly both in the Larger and 
Shorter Catechism." Said Lord Cornbury to his prisoner 
in New York: "You shall not spread your pernicious 
doctrine here." Straight as one of his Holden's Creek 
pines, he answers: "As for our doctrines, my Lord, we 
have our Confession of Faith which is known to the 
Christian world, and I challenge all the clergy of York 
to show us any false or pernicious doctrine therein !" 
There he stands ! Such were his testimonies, as pure as 
the breath of the myrtle, as invigorating as the ozone of 



Makemielaxd Memorials 17 

the seas. And like their Founder, the pulpits of this lower 
Peninsula have never swerved nor prevaricated ! At 
Onancock, Drummondtown, Bay View, Belle Haver. 
Snow Hill, Pitt's Creek, Pocorhoke, Monokin, Wicomico, 
Buckingham and Mother Rehoboth, John Calvin and John 
Knox and Francis Makemie hold the fort ! 

4. Who and what was he? He was a partner in 
Paul's tent-making, a man of affairs, an unique man 
for the times. He refused to be a burden upon the im- 
poverished colonists. So he says, perhaps with some 
pride, "Whatever others have done, I dare affirm I never 
bargained with any people for a maintenance and oft re- 
fused money when freely offered." Cornbury writes 
pettishly to the London authorities: "He is a Jack-at- 
all trades ; he is a preacher, a doctor of physic, a mer- 
chant, an attorney, a counsellor at law, and which is 
worst of all, a disturber of governments !" Evidently 
one functionary of government was disturbed ! 

In 1705 he writes to Governor Xott, of Virginia, urg- 
ing measures for "Promoting and encouraging education 
and virtue, checking and discountenancing vice or im- 
morality in all. from the highest to the lowest, by the 
example of a severe and virtuous conversation in Gover- 
nors and Counsellors ; and promoting a reformation of 
manners, in putting all our penal laws in due execution, 
encouraging strict justice in all of our judicatories, and 
in propagating the true knowledge of the Christian re- 
ligion to all Pagans, whether Indians or Negroes ; all of 
which has been lamentably neglected." This was probing 
to the roots. To his inventory of Makemie's avocations, 
Cornbury might have added, Statesman ! 

At first the careful Pioneer was not overcharmed 
with the Peninsula wilderness. The persecuted left be- 



18 Makemieland Memorials 

hind were expecting to hear from him as advance-guard. 
William Trail was thinking of following. In 1684 Make- 
mie writes back: "My friends in Ireland I design to be 
very cautious in inviting to any place in America I have 
yet seen." The primitive Eastern Shore and the smiles 
of Naomi Anderson had not yet had time to get in their 
work. Hear him in 1705, "I need not inform you what 
an excellent and desirable country you inhabit, not in- 
ferior to any Colonies in the English America ; situate in 
a moderate climate and Northern latitude, suitable and 
agreeable to European bodies ; supplied with the spacious 
Bay of Chesapeake which runs through and divides first 
Virginia, next Maryland, about eight leagues breadth; 
capable of receiving vast fleets of ships without skillful 
pilots, not to be affrighted with dangerous rocks and dis- 
mal sands ; a Bay in many respects not to be outdone by 
the universe; having so many large and spacious rivers 
branching on both sides, and each of these rivers richly 
supplied and subdivided into sundry smaller rivers, 
spreading themselves both on the north and south sides 
to innumerable coves, admirably carved out and contrived 
by the Omnipotent Creator for the advantage and con- 
venience of its inhabitants ; so that I have oft, with no 
small admiration, compared the many rivers, creeks and 
rivulets to veins in human hands." Here is a Political 
Economist enthused ! Listen again ; "Here we have a 
clear serene air, a free and fertile soil ; here are vast 
quantities of timber for shipping, trade and architecture, 
our country being generally woody ; a soil suitable for 
producing anything agreeable for a Northern latitude and 
with as little labor as any place in the world; spacious 
a-id flourishing orchards, replenished with fair and pleas- 
ant fruits." Listen again, you who are to the Manor 



Makemieland Memorials 19 

born: "Our fishing would be advanced and improved; 
our vast plenty of oysters would make a beneficial trade, 
both with the town and foreign traders; believing that 
we have the best of oysters for pickling and transpor- 
tation." I quote our Founder's fervor about the bivalves 
to bring him out of the fogs and reveal him as a man 
of flesh and blood like the rest of us. Naomi Anderson 
and the climate and the orchards and the oysters and 
his two little Virginia girls and the planted churches, 
have gotten in their work and he becomes a typical East- 
ern Shoreman. 

So he went on accumulating land and pushing his 
commercial enterprises and cheering the prosperity of his 
neighbors and preaching the Gospel from Barbadoes to 
Boston. The Bible of the pulpit, he carried into trade. 
Hear him: "God the Eternal and Only Wise Law-giver 
has formed a Law every way quadrate and suited to our 
secular interests." The Apostle of the Chesapeake knew 
how to harmonize religion and dollars. 

5. Who and what was Francis Makemie? He was 
a chivalrous and victorious champion of religious liberty. 
Our St. Patrick was to have his own tilt with the snakes. 
Yes, both in Virginia and Maryland and notably in New 
York. Did that imaginary Moses of the Emerald Isle 
foresee the Scotch-Irish blood peopling America with 
patriots, unearthing the diamond of toleration and giving 
five Presidents to a vast Republic religiously untram- 
meled? When the Declaration of Independence was 
ripening, an old pamphlet was reprinted to help in arous- 
ing the people : "A Narrative of a New and Unusual Im- 
prisonment of Two Presbyterian Ministers ; by a Learner 
of Law and Lover of Liberty." 

Need I say who was that Learner of Law and Lover 



20 Makemieland Memorials 

of Liberty? After the organization of the Mother Pres- 
bytery in Philadelphia, he starts for Boston and tarries 
for a while and preaches in New York. Singularly, that 
sermon urges obedience to Rulers, but for that sermon he 
is arrested, brow-beaten by the corrupt Cornbury and 
thrust into prison for six weeks. And yet it is a fact 
that there was no Established Church in that Colony. 
Yet an obsequious jury indicts him; he challenges trial 
and can't get it ; he is mulcted for expenses and released 
on bail ; the trial deferred for four months and their vic- 
tim 400 miles from home. Undoubtedly the program 
is to worry him out of the Dominion — with no dream 
that he will return. Ah! Cornbury does not yet know 
his Jack-at-all-trades. 

June comes and Regulus is back in Carthage. That 
blue-eyed, fair-haired, light-complexioned Irishman is on 
his mettle. The first legal battle for religious freedom 
in America must not go by default. Luther again faces 
the Diet of Worms. He employs counsel but largely 
conducts his own defence — confusing the prosecutor, puz- 
zling the judge, and capturing the jury. Acquitted, he is 
fleeced again for $400 for expenses. He pays the boodle, 
but he is not done. Hear him : 

"We cannot, we dare not be silent at this juncture 
but are bound to let both Europe and America know the 
first prosecution of this kind that ever was in America, 
which we hope from the merits of the case, manner and 
proceeding and its unsuccessfulness, will never be drawn 
into precedent in our quiet and peaceable wilderness." 

Francis knows how to wield the pen, and that Nar- 
rative exposes the Oppressor. The next Legislature 
makes another such prosecution impossible in New York. 
Cornbury is soon displaced, arrested immediately for 



Makemieland Memorials 21 

debt, and the profligate spendthrift and patron of the 
Church is imprisoned in the same quarters where he had 
locked up our Founder. Poetic Justice and Divine! 
When our Coeur de Lion got back to Holden's Creek, 
did the woods, laurels and the hollies weave a chaplet for 
his crown, and did the seabreezes breathe prophecies of 
the days of '76? 

For thereby hangs a tale. In the logical aftertimes. 
Makemie's surviving daughter, a gray-haired woman of 
wealth and influence, lives on through the days of battles, 
beset by British gunboats, no patriot stauncher than she — 
a chip of the old block! Who ever heard of a Presby- 
terian Tory? She hears the last guns booming over 
yonder at Yorktown, triumphs in the surrender of Corn- 
wallis, and sees the twin-brilliants of civil and religious 
liberty polished into lasting lustre. The Presbyterian 
General Assembly is organized the year she dies. Dying, 
she bequeaths her Father's broad acres pointedly to the 
friends of American Independence. Makemie is still in 
the saddle ! 

And now, all hail, Church of his love — she too his 
daughter. Look around you and walk reverently. See 
where he planned his Evangelistic campaigns, Ulysses em- 
barking from Ithica. See, for here he dreamed his 
dreams of great States and General Assemblies. . See 
where he wooed his bride and where his two little girls 
cooed upon his bosom. See where the mourners gathered 
and in yonder vanished brick wall laid away his worn- 
out body only fifty years old to its repose. "Committing 
my body," so he wrote one April day 200 years ago — 
"committing my body to ye dust, decently to be interred, 
and my immortal soul to an Almighty and Most Merci- 
ful God in hopes of a glorious and blessed resurrection 
unto eternal salvation." 



22 MAKEMIELAND MEMORIALS 

And in a little while Bettie the first-born came; then 
Naomi the beloved wife came ; and far down the century, 
very old, Anne the second-born came, and they are all 
here! 

Who then is left to care for the grave of Makemie? 
Oh desolate Eastern Shore graveyards, more populous 
than the concourses of the living; no sighs but the sighs 
of the pines, no wails but the wails of the Northeasters, 
no watchers but the angels ! 

"The harp that once through Tara's halls 
The soul of Music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 
As if that soul were fled." 

And that old brick enclosure, built to protect the dead, 
crumbled; and the fragments of the old tombs were car- 
ried off for whetstones. Like the burial-place of Israel's 
great leader, the resting place of another leader was lost 
and unknown. 

"O lonely tomb in Moab's land, 

O dark Bethpeor's hill, 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours 

And teach them to be still; 
God hath His mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep like the quiet sleep 

Oi him we loved so well !" 

But there came the sound of a going as in the tops 
of the pine trees. The heart of the Church was yet to 
turn again to the buried sleepers in Accomack. Did I 
say that all his children were in that disintegrated brick- 
wall? Oh no, there was another heir, a remembering 



Makemieland Memorials 23 

Church, and her loyal heart would in time rebloom and 
explorers would find the hidden sepulchre. Like the 
woman of the Parable rejoicing over her recovered 
dowry, and calling together her neighbors to share the 
sparkle of her treasure, so Makemie's real heir would 
here celebrate the legacy of sacred dust re-discovered, 
and would dedicate her memorials to face the centuries 
like the faithful Carins and Cromlechs consecrated in 
prehistoric times to the heroic dead in Makemie's native 
Erin. 

Far down the quaint old Eastern Shore, 

By placid Holden's Creek, 
Where glistens shimmering to the West 

The sheen of Chesapeake ; 
Where midst the brooding silences 

And flight of ocean-bird. 
Sometimes the voices of the dead 

In pensive hours are heard, 
Here underneath God's guardian skies, 
The grave of our Makemie lies. 

Where worthies of the vicinage 

Two hundred years have been, 
The Taylors and the Andersons, 

Our Founder's honored kin ; 
Where blossoms in the marshes bear 

The only diadems ; 
Where osprey and kingfisher chant 

Their faithful requiems ; 
Beside the accusing, plaintive wave. 
There lay the desecrated grave ! 

Far back in dim Colonial times. 

One tearful April day, 
A dying voice — "The hour is come 

The hour to pass away; 



24 Makemieland Memorials 

Along these coasts by field and flood, 

In heavy cares and prayers, 
I've fought the fight, I've kept the faith, 

Through long, laborious years ; 
This weary body, weak, infirm. 
Is yielding to the wind and storm. 

Not on the hills of Donegal 

Where boyhood's footsteps played, 
Where father, mother, heart to heart, 

With kindred dust are laid. 
But Erin's exile on the edge 

Of this vast lonely world. 
Where first our Calvinistic flag, 

These venturous hands unfurl'd, 
I give my bones to those for whom 
I bring the Church and earn a tomb. 

"No mausoleum proud I crave 

To mark my humble rest ; 
Let statesman famed or warrior bold 

Enjoy their laurel'd crest; 
A lonely herald of the Cross, 

I claim no fulsome pall, 
But just a little quiet nook 

And decent burial ; 
Here where my pilgrim feet have trod 
And claimed America for God. 

"When I am gone, I see the Church 

In prosperous strides expand, 
And East and West and North and South 

Go conquering through the land; 
Perhaps to children's children then 

The story shall be told. 
And children's children thrill and warm 

To sturdy deeds of old ; 
And to this spot turn thoughtful eyes 
Where their Makemie slumbering lies." 



Makemieland Memorials 25 

Low breezes blow from Chesapeake 

And moan along the shore ; 
Sad Holden's Creek has ceased to sing 

Like Tara's harp of yore; 
The seabird's dirges interlude 

The sighing of the waves; 
I hear the cattle's nightly tread 

Sound hollow o'er the graves; 
And there God's Acre dark, forlorn. 
Awaits the Resurrection morn. 

But hark ! Rehoboth's bosom throbs 

And Memory waves her wand ; 
The old Peninsula wakes up 

And neighboring lands respond ;. 
The Church is stirred, she weaves her wreaths ; 

Her grateful offspring come; 
They clear the rubbish from the years 

And vindicate the tomb; 
Oblivion's night its course has run, 
The Resurrection has begun ! 

Perhaps some Cambrian Seer foresaw, 

In visions far away, 
Where now we raise with reverent hearts 

Our Cromlech here to-day; 
I hear the Seer — "The great and good 

Old Time cannot destroy ; 
The centuries may wave and fade, 

But not our Ulster boy ; 
While stars shall gem the Western sky, 
Makemie's name shall never die!" 



26 Makemieland Memorials 



Message of the Monument, 



Address at the Dedication of the Memorial to Col. 
John Postley, December 3, 1909. 

REVERENCE for the noble dead is ennobling to 
the living. Our dead are not dead. They have 
only left the Eastern Shore for the Eternal Shore. 
When we become oblivious of the ascended and crowned, 
we ourselves are the corpses. 

I am a loyal Eastern Shoreman. Though the most 
of my years have been spent in the West and South, yet 
there has never been an hour when pride and affection 
ever wavered from the blue skies between the Bays. The 
Land of the Evergreens, the bowers of pine and holly 
and laurel, the footprints of the fathers, followed the 
untraveled heart and refused to relinquish their proprie- 
torship in the Wanderer. 

Yet I have two or three little quarrels with my native 
heath. I remonstrate modestly with the old Peninsula 
families who have forfeited their genealogies and buried 
their pedigrees. Many a grand man and woman walked 
these territories and their blood is in your veins and you 
have forgotten them. Yet all that is beautiful in this 
Land of Promise, you have inherited. 

Another little quarrel. I remonstrate with the 
churches which have slighted and thrown away their 
Records. Where are the priceless Session Books of the 
Makemie churches, gold mines of historical and bio- 



Makemieland Memorials 27 

graphical wealth if they could be resurrected? What 
would I have given for their precious pages while delving 
for years in the dust and dark, striving to revive the 
personality of our Founder and his contemporaries 
groping in the fogs, picking up a jewel here and there, 
all his churches bankrupt in Records. And what illum- 
inations your own Session Book of a century ago, if now 
in existence, would have thrown upon John Postley and 
his fellow Elders and your kinsmen among those wor- 
shipers ! 

One more little quarrel. I remonstrate with the liv- 
ing for the neglect of the accusing graveyards. Vener- 
able dormitories of the heroes and heroines of the Eas- 
tern Shore, we are not worthy of you. The faithful cedars 
cut down, the sacred soil grubbed and ploughed for a few 
nubbins of corn — so sleep my grandparents beneath the 
tread of soulless Vandals. How is it with yours? On 
the original Rehoboth plantation, harrowed to the very 
edge in a cultivated field, lies the flat tombstone of Judge 
William Stevens, who wrote the letter which brought 
Makemie to America — a large cemetary there once, filled 
with colonial officials, now beneath the plough. So slept 
for years the disregarded dust of our Founder under the 
filthy accumulations of a cattlepen. And for generations 
the great American Presbyterian Church made no sign. 
And this fair Peninsula which he preempted for the Gos- 
pel condoned the sacrilege. 

But there is a light along the horizon. Makemie's 
fame has been vindicated; that cattle-pen has been era- 
dicated, and that imposing monument on picturesque 
Holden's Creek honors the living as well as the dead. 
I speak of that because so to-day the name of John Post- 
ley is worthily recalled and commemorated. Another 
graveyard has been rescued and declared sacred. 



28 Makemieland Memorials 

A hundred years ago the good man was worshiping 
down in the ancient brick Buckingham Church wearing 
the honors of the Eldership. For God had said through 
Paul, "Let the Elders that rule well be counted worthv 
of double honor." Nearly a hundred years ago(i8i5) 
he went to his eternal reward; taking his place around 
about the Throne with the four and twenty elders clothed 
in white raiment and having on their heads crowns of 
gold. For nearly a hundred years his grave has been un- 
marked and unvisited. Out of his comfortable means he 
made no provision for marble or granite to guard his 
dust. Forgetful of self, bestowing his goods another 
way, he left the graves of himself and wife to the tender 
mercies of the forgetful. But we are remembering. 
There is life in the old land vet! 

i. Gratitude pleads the claim of our dead. We 
thank God for Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, for Moses 
and Isaiah and Paul. The dead gave us the Bible and 
as their legacy the tidings of salvation. And our Eastern 
Shore has her own patriarchs and prophets and apostles. 
All that is best in us came by descent. Those who sailed 
from amid the persecutions of Europe and patented these 
farms, patented them for us. \\ "ho founded our churches, 
our court houses, our schools? We are miserable in- 
g rates if we ignore our indebtness to the dead. Thank 
God for our fathers ! 

This must not be a sectarian speech. An Episcopa- 
lian father gave me the best wife in the world. The pastor 
of this church is so pious and so orthodox and has never 
fallen from grace because he married a good Methodist. 
And John Postley transcended denominational lines. 
But I am compelled to think of him to-day as one among 
the benches of Presbyterian elders who have illustrated 



Makemieland Memorials 29 

our past two centuries. Their names are unheralded on 
the scrolls of fame. The Minutes which they kept of 
their prayerful proceedings are mouldered and gone. 

Noiselessly they watched over the interests of Zion. 
Quietly they distributed the bread and wine to dead gene- 
rations. Humbly they lived and as ensamples to the 
flock. Imagination points to the dim forms and gray 
heads in the sanctuary. So they worshiped and prayed 
and passed. They are in these scattered graveyards. 
Who can call the roll of these elders? And yet what 
treasures they guarded for us. Thank God for our dead! 
To-day we take one name from the legends. I can 
tell you but little about him. Would you like to know 
his ancestry? So would I. Would you love to learn from 
whom he inherited his noble impulses? So would I. 
Would you be glad to be told how, from paternal or 
maternal line he breathed in his goodness to the needy? 
So would I. For us, he was like Melchisedek. king of 
Salem, without father of mother or beginning of days, 
and without posterity. 

But he sat in that little Session Room beneath the 
venerable oaks, and he rode back and forth from his 
country home — thinking about the sons and daughters 
of the poor. Were there not aspiring young natures out 
upon the farms and in homes of the mechanics? And 
so John Postley in hours of elevation went on dreaming 
his holy dreams. 

Was the sunshine that fell upon his pathwav a pro- 
phecy of the sunshine that he would scatter about human 
destinies after he was gone ; sunrise upon the lives of 
those who were to arise and call him blessed? Do I cloak 
the fact to-day that I was one of his beneficiaries ? Do I 
blush to own that I was among Postley's "charity schol- 



30 Makemieland Memorials 

ars?" No, no; I told it wherever I went and where but 
for me the name of John Postley would never have been 
heard. I have never disguised it — that my start in life, 
my love of books, my literary fads, my youthful ambi- 
tions, and the little success I have attained, were all due 
to him. I am proud to represent here at this time his 
proteges — the recipients of his bounty. I am proud of 
my church because two hundred years ago the first legacy 
ever given in Maryland to the cause of education was the 
devise of 500 pounds by David Brown, a pioneer Eastern 
Shoreman and a Presbyterian. I am proud of Buck- 
ingham because the philanthropist Postley was one 
of her officials. It does us all good to praise the worthy 
dead. And thus with grateful hearts, among the tombs 
of Eastern Shoreman, we bring our spray of evergreen 
and lay it reverently upon the grave of John Postley. 

2. Fidelity to our dead fosters an admiration for 
character and integrity that is "wholesome. I love to ad- 
mire people. I love to discover and cherish beautiful 
manly and womanly traits and characteristics. I enjoy 
purity of white souls as I enjoy the lilies. I delight in 
brilliant men and women as I enjoy the brilliancy of the 
stars. I know no luxury greater than the luxury of 
lovable faces and lovable dispositions and lovable hearts. 
It is salutary and elevating to appreciate good people. 

And along the years what galleries we may gather of 
such portraits — the faithful and winsome and true. Many 
of these choice ones may have been transferred to the 
Heavenly corriders, but they are ours still. We gaze after 
them and revere. There they are — the unforgotten, the 
admirable. So God gathers His jewels — His jewels and 
ours! 

Nobody survives to describe John Postley. His con- 



Makemieland Memorials 31 

temporaries are all gone. My father knew him but he 
too has gone. The photographers were an after growth. 
My fancy shall paint him as an ideal Elder — the plain, 
unassuming farmer — a lover of his church, of his pastor 
and of his pa*stor's boy — respectful and considerate of the 
poor — a public-spirited citizen — a true friend. May not 
our hearts picture him as a dignified country gentleman 
of the old-school — a thoughtful brow with lines of kind- 
liness — benevolent eyes that seemed to penetrate the 
future — a strong but attractive face with the light of the 
redeeme 1 about it ? And all his movements and demeanor 
seem to invite confidence and reverence. He carries him- 
self as one of God's solid, substantial peasantry. 

Yes, I know that this is a dream picture, but do we 
not find its outlines standing out from that recorded will ; 
his providing for his slaves — his bequest to his pastor's 
son — his interest in the redmen of the forest — his sym- 
pathv for the ambitions of poor men's children? What 
artist could produce masterpiece more exquisite ? It looks 
like one of the Bible portraits of the old worthies of 
Israel. Oh yes, we have a right to admire our dead. 
About our deeper vision thy hover like the armies of the 
Lord over the hill of Dothan. Fine old Col. Postley — 
he lives, and we love to array such as he in the garniture 
of Heaven. 

3. Our dead live as a perennial inspiration. Listen to 
them. Their tones are like the still small voice which 
Elijah heard. They whisper to us when the world lulls. 
They speak to us from the Holy of Holies. In the softer 
Eastern Shore breezes are they not audible and homelike ? 
In the low requiems of the pines do not the graveyards 
talk to us? Oh Eastern Shore lads, Oh Eastern Shore 
lassies, there are messages for you from these quiet 



32 Makemieland Memorials 

graves. Yonder sleepers in the tomb created these arenas 
of usefulness radiating about you. They built the step- 
ping-stones. 

Listen ! Hear we not friendly utterances emerging 
from Postley's resting-place? It is no trouble for me to 
believe that he is interested in us still. It is more than 
eloquence. I seem to catch in impressive cadences the 
voice of the departed, saying: 

"Ye young people of Worcester, there is a bright 
future for the aspiring. These minds and hearts and sus- 
ceptibilities of yours are God-given and a holy trust. 
Your motherly Eastern Shore has had her founders and 
builders and they have wrought out for you a delightful 
heritage. Avenues of attainment and achievement are all 
around you. Between the two Oceans there are no finer 
opportunities than here between the two Ba\s. Our 
Makemie foresaw it when he described it as 'a country 
capable of superlative improvement.' We, your prede- 
cessors, claim splendid developments from our successors. 
The destitute need not stay destitute. The ignorant need 
not remain ignorant. Laurels grow in your groves. 

"Poor boys and girls," the voice seem to say. "are 
God's favorites, and they often become the favorites of 
their generation. Sons and daughters of humble men 
have outstripped many a rival. The educated poor have 
attractive chances for promotion. There were no high 
schools free to everybody in my day. Now the doors are 
flung ajar to all. The old Buckingham academy did nota- 
ble work, equipping many a worthy aspirant, but it was a 
grander day when the commonwealth widened its wel- 
comes to all comers. You are facing magnificent priv- 
iliges. Hail, ye children of the people ! Backbone will 
reach the goal. There is inspiration all along the line. 
I, John Postley, salute you !" 



Makemieland Memorials 33 

Thus do not we hear the encouragements fresh from 
the old man's lips? The whispers of the dead are like the 
Psalmist's music of the spheres — "There is no speech nor 
language where their voice is not heard." 

4. Fidelity to our dead vivifies the anticipations of 
meeting them again. All this but hastens us toward the 
Resurrection. The angels will not need the granite or 
bronze to reveal the resting-places of the saints on the 
Coronation Morn. God will know where the long line 
c f Buckingham Elders are reposing. When the last trump 
sounds, ears long soundless shall hear, though the tassling 
corn shall have waved over them for a thousand years. 

The presbyters of the Makemie churches will form 
a goodly array on that bright day. The ancient Sessional 
Records may be lost but the Lamb's Book of Life is not 
lost. I wish we had the unbroken list of the Elders of 
Rehoboth, of Pitt's Creek, of Monokin, of Snow Hill, of 
Rockawalkin, of Wicomico, of Buckingham. God has the 
list ! Among them was many a staunch head and heart, 
many a man of God, straight as the coast-pines, rugged 
in fibre as the oaks that brave the northeasters. Grand 
old Eldership that guarded the altars and fenced the 
vineyards and handed down our patrimony unimpaired! 

Erect among them, distinctly to-day we see standing 
out in full relief the form of our Postley, the peer of them 
all, typical scion of a Presbyterianism which has always 
stood for Christian education, for religious culture. So 
he saw the boys at work in the cornfields and the girls 
at work in the their kitchens. He thought of the souls 
that were in them. He longed that they might have a 
square deal. He saw the diamonds in the rough. He 
detected the sparkle of the unquarried gold. He would 



34 Makemieland Memorials . 

polish God's jewels. He would give the caged eagles 
wings. 

While a sincere Presbyterian, he was broad-guaged, 
His benefactions were not to be confined to his own de- 
nomination. He aimed at- a fair chance for the worthy 
poor of all churches. Magnanimous old philanthrophist ! 
He who had impartialy distributed the bread and wine 
to all communicants, would as freely distribute God's 
educational gifts to all the ambitious. He was the har- 
binger of our beneficent public schools. 

We are proud of our race sometimes. God has a use 
for noble waymarks in the plain paths of life. The good 
alone are truly great. Why did not some Worcester 
county boy write the words : 

"Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And departing leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time." 

When noble hearts and generous hearts die, that is not 
the last of them. These are the immortals. They per- 
petuate themselves in the lives of the beneficiaries. John 
Postley survived in the career of his students. And then 
our dead are waiting for us in the deathless land. We 
expect to meet them and tell them of our indebtedness. 
Thank God for our dead ! I wonder if Col. Postley knows 
what we are doing to-day ! 

Well, we'll see him some day, we his boys and girls, 
and tell him of the seed he has planted. We are indirectly 
honoring ourselves when we honor Heaven's ordained 
agencies. We are made better by appreciating the fine 
old characters which have passed across our horizion. 
This is the voice of the monuments. They are the land- 



Makemieland Memorials 35 

marks along the highway to the Better Land while we try 
to travel in the track in which our fathers went. 

Standing by the Memorial as completed and trying 
to interpret John Postley, we think of the deceased as a 
child of the Most High long since promoted; who be- 
lieved in and illustrated a practical Christianity ; who, 
concerned in heart for the good of others, exhibited gen- 
uine altruism before that word was coined, who served 
well his own generation and wrought for future genera- 
tions. Being dead he yet speaketh, and once more we 
seem to hear from the tomb words like these : 

"Improve yourselves conscientiously while upon 
earth. Cultivate your gifts. Treasure your opportunities. 
Be not disheartened by poverty and privations. If you 
help yourselves manfully, God will help you and good 
men will help you. 'Get wisdom and with all they get- 
ting get understanding.' Appreciate your schools ; love 
your church ; love your country ; love your God. 
Break over barriers and prove your mettle. Ye 
sons and daughters of the poor, some of God's prophets 
were herdsmen and shepherds, and the Saviour of 
the world came out of a carpenter's shop. The true 
education touches eternity. Minds and hearts properly 
trained here below go on perfecting forever. Christianity 
educates. Godly culture -ennobles. You can graduate 
form the schools of earth into the University of the skies. 
You can share the diplomas of Moses and Isaiah and Paul, 
and of the sainted dead of the Eastern Shore. And the 
gratitude of those whom we have benefitted along the way 
will not detract form the lustre of the crown. I, John 
Postley, the old farmer, salute you !" 

5. Onr dead give us much of the sweetest poesv of life. 
Since the Muses left the groves of Helicon, I know no 



36 Makemieland Memorials 

more congenial habitat for the Sacred Nine than along 
the water-courses and among the evergreens of the Eas- 
tern Shore. Where shall harp and lyre find richer key- 
notes than among these Peninsular cemeteries? Who 
of all earth's singers have sung the highest strains? The 
dead singers. Who of earth's bards have warbled the 
sweetest? The dead bards. Go stand in one of these 
sepulchral solitudes at sunset and read again that match- 
less, immortal Elegy of Thomas Gray. Gray, too, is long 
since dead, but there is no death for words like these. 

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
The Plowman homeward plods his weary way 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

"Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, 
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 
Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the voiceless tenor of their way." 

Our Eastern Shore has many an unwritten poem as 
perfect as that. And Buckingham Academy might well 
have nourished some native Longfellow to sing in rythm 
like this : 

"Ye who sometimes in your rambles 
Through the green lanes of the country 
Where the tangled barberry bushes 
Hang their tufts of crimson berries 
Over stone walls gray with mosses ; 
Pause by some neglected graveyard 
For awhile to pause and ponder 
On a half-effaced inscription 



Makemieland Memorials 37 

Written with little skill of song-craft, 
Homely phrases, but each letter 
Full of hope and yet of heartbreak, 
Full of all the tender pathos 
Of the Here and the Hereafter." 

Such strains might well have ripened beneath these 
skies, for your poetic Eastern Shore has had her own 
Hiawathas and Minnehahas. Do we not sometimes in 
the twilight catch glimpses of the phantom canoes gliding 
along the low marshes, or perhaps the gray smoke of the 
wigwams curling ghost-like out of the pine dreamland? 
Where is King Daniel of the Pocomokes and Matchacoo- 
pah ? And where are Queen Weocomocomus and her son 
Knusonum, and her dusky courtiers Waspossan, Tang- 
quatum, Skifortum, Young Robin and Ringtaughton? 
A few dim names upon the yellow court records and that 
is all — relics of the more than ten lost tribes of the 
Eastern Shore. They have had no bard, but for those 
walking thoughtfully above their dust the poesy still pul- 
sates in the sunshine and the shadows. Did not Col. Post- 
ley breathe that poesy when his compassion went out in 
his will for the ill-treated aboriginies? 

Yes, the land of vacancies ! Where are the honest 
Quaker immigrants, who once flocked from all over the 
broad country to Judge Stevens' hospitable plantation, 
there side by side with the Indians to listen in ecstacy to 
to the great English mystic, George Fox; sturdy old 
broad-brims who expected with their mysterious Inner 
Light to supplant Episcopacy, Presbyterianism, Makemie 
and all the rest. They were a rugged 'sect, but with the 
shadowy sons of the forest they too faded away like the 
fog-drift of the morning and left no Homer or Milton or 
Burns or Tennyson to adorn the story. And here are the 



38 Makemieland Memorials 

gardens of pathos again. Down the Snow Hill road you 
are pointed to what is still known as the "Old Quaker 
Burying Ground"— not a slab, not an inscription, not a 
name, a vague tradition and that is all. The poesy alone 
lingers about the hill. And thus too for a hundred years 
the poetry and the pathos were alone left to distinguish 
the spot where Postley slumbers. • 

Going as the Redman and the Quakers went, thus 
many of your original families, once prominent, have 
passed away like the exhalations floating off from your 
romantic streams ; or, shall I say like those peerless apple 
trees under which our childhood played and luxuriated, 
the Vandevers and the Gricksons, queens of the orchards, 
yielding to baser imported breeds. 

Where are the Ratcliffs — where are the Prideaux — 
where are the Tennants — where are the Rankinses — 
where are the Newbolds — where are the Brevards — 
where are the Claytons — where are the Foremans — 
where are the Quintons — where are the Lucases — where 
are the Murrays — where are the Bruffs — where are the 
Briddells — where are the Ironshires — where are the 
Postleys? Who answers to the roll-call? So Ossian 
sings: "Deep is the sleep of the dead; low is their pillow 
of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice ; no more awake 
at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the 
slumberer awake? Thou hast left no son." "The chiefs 
of other times are departed. They have gone without 
their fame. The sons of future years shall pass away. 
Another race shall arise. The people are like the waves 
of ocean ; like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass 
away in the rustling blast and other leaves lift their green 
heads on high." 

So passed the Vikings of Scandinavia. So passed 



Makemieland Memorials 39 

the Druids of ancient Britain. Nay, so passed the Jef- 
fersons and Patrick Henrys and Washingtons of Vir- 
ginia. "Your fathers, where are they ; and the prophets, 
do they live forever?'' It is all poesy. Those surviving 
slaves of the old master who ensured them homes in sight 
of his grave, remained for awhile, the "old Postley ne- 
groes," and then too those sable mourners faded out. 
And that too was poesy — such as the troubadours sang 
about the romantic feudal castles. 

Oh yes, for the thoughtful, these old-time farms are 
full of music and sentiment. The footprints of the 
fathers, the Land of the Evergreens, await an interpreter. 
Wanted — some Peninsula Theocritus to weave indigenous 
Idyls and Pastorals. Wanted — some native Virgil to put 
in enduring verse our Eastern Shore Georgics and 
Bucolics. No child of his own, did John Postley dream 
of some girl or boy of other nurseries to rise and add 
lustre to the land of our birth? 

The old farm-house is very still ; 
The birds may sing as birdies will ; 
But there's a silence in the rooms, 
No children's prattle when he comes ; 
No little footsteps on the floor, 
No children's greeting at the door, 
And there's a lack of childhood's glee, 
And there's a voiceless vacancy. 

The old farm-house is very still, 

Let birdie" sing as birdies will ; 

His is a heart just made to move 

To childhood's joy and children's love; 

To other groups his musing runs ; 

Are there not other little ones? 

The vision stirs him o'er and o'er — 

The offspring of the worthy poor ! 



40 Makemieland Memorials 

The old farm-house is very still, 
Though birdies sing as birdies will; 
No little prattlers of his own, 
He'll carry light like morning dawn 
To lowly homes and circumstance 
And give aspiring poor the chance; 
The old farm-house is very still, 
And birds sang on as birdies will. 

It has been said that God left George Washington 
childless that the nation might call him Father. Was 
John Postley's nursery left tenantless that poor men's 
sons and daughters might hail him as Father — as I do 
this day! And poesy sighed about the silent hill — the 
old Postley graveyard — a funeral legend — and that was 
all. And the green pines fell and the brier-patch was 
narrowing up. A few old-fashioned jonquils alone re- 
mained faithful. Not a tree was left where the robins 
might build their nests and sing their requiems. 

Oh, the epics and elegiacs and lyrics and threnodies 
of the Eastern Shore graveyards ! Ossian might well 
sing here again his songs of Morven. Breathe it in — 
the filial poesy — for it is humanizing and uplifting. We 
need relief from the material, the selfish, the humdrum. 
We need our dead! They make Heaven real and close. 
This is the true poetry of life — the rhyming together of 
the past and the present and the future. That will of 
John Postley is a poem. That monument dedicated to- 
day is a responsive stanza in the song. Thus the soul 
gets its refinements and its pinions! 

The old plantation graveyards where lie the unmur- 
muring dead, 

Where moved the slow procession and the sun- 
dered heartstrings Lied; 



Makemieland Memorials 41 

Where rose the supplications and the hymns of love 

and faith, 
And preachers talked of Heaven and the triumph 

over death. 

The old plantation graveyards beside the rural 

homes, 
Where the wounded sat at eventide and viewed the 

tranquil tombs, 
And thought the loved ones near them still though 

lifted to the skies, 
The •fellowship of kindred souls amid the silences. 

i 

The old plantation graveyards where, in the soli- 
tudes, 

The plaintive spirit of past days still like a presence 
broods, 

And floats about the scene like mist that lights and 
disappears, 

The friendships of the fathers and the loves of van- 
ished years. 

The old plantation graveyards, sometimes a place 
for tears, 

The watchers gone, the walls o'erthrown, the wreck- 
age of the years; 

The mould and 'frost and mildew, the hillocks 
sunken down, 

The silence of forgetfulness, the cold oblivion. 

The old plantation graveyards the ov/ners passed 

away, 
The waving wheat and silking corn in our ancestral 

day, 
And tken the tread of strangers, where low the coast 

wind moans, 
The plowshare grating ruthlessly above dishonored 

bones ! 



42 Makemieland Memorials 

The old plantation graveyards — it cannot hurt the 

dead; 
The hurt is to the living, the finer instincts fled; 
The voices of the hoary past, the treasuries of time, 
The badge of immortality and of sentiment sublime ! 

The old plantation graveyards — to one of them today 
We come with bared and reverent brow and there 

our chaplet lay ; 
Dear old plantation graveyard, the fields where 

Postley trod, 
And planned his holy charities and went on up to 

God! 

And this is the message of tJie monument. 



Makemieland Memorials 43 



The Prophet of the Bays, 



A Dream. 
I. 



IT HAD been a great, great day — there on Holden's 
Creek — that happy time in the May of 1908. It was 
a day of consummations. On that pensive Neck 
o' Land, down the Virginia way, swarming with the 
phantasms of the past and with poesy, never had there 
been such enthusiasm witnessed except — but that comes 
afterward. 

Thousands had been gathered, of all creeds and pedi- 
grees, to share in the late honors paid by a Great Church 
to her American Founder, deceased two hundred years. 
Sacred grounds rescued from neglect and desecration, 
eloquent speeches made, dim history resurrected, the 
stately fugue of Old Hundred mingled with the as- 
tonished exclamations of the ospreys and eagles, there 
among the plaudits of the multitude, the solemn cere- 
monials of dedication had been completed. Francis Make- 
mie had come to his own. The Eastern Shore had re- 
newed her youth. 

In all varieties of quaint vehicles and afoot, and to 
all points of the compass, the dissolving throngs had 
faded away; and the solitude was left to the dreaminess 
of the marshes and to the shimmering of the waters and 
the flight of the seabirds — and to just two others. 



44 Makemieland Memorials 

There on the ancient burial ground stood the granite 
monument surmounted by the imposing statue; eyes 
raised revently to the Heavens, the Holy Bible in one 
hand, the other lifted in benediction. That benediction 
was now perpetuated for the centuries. The Memorial 
faced Old Rehoboth, ten miles away. 

"Your young men shall see visions and your old men 
shall dream dreams." Under the spell of that raised 
hand sat another figure in the gloaming, as still and con- 
templative as the statue; a white-haired man who had 
been dreaming of this day for many poetic years. Old 
Parson Makemie had been the romance of his boyhood; 
dimly living among the mists like the Gods and Goddesses 
of the Academy Classics. The vague past gripped the 
young imagination more and more — old Parson Makemie, 
old Parson Makemie, idealized, vitalized, etherialized. 
Why not some Eastern Shore boy disperse the shadows, 
illumine the oblivion, bring the faded personality out of 
the forgotten grave, rehabilitate the Apocryphal hero, 
and give the Eastern Shore his fame ! 

Now, the only lingering companion of that impressive 
statue, there sat the old man, whether in the body he 
could not tell or whether out of the body he could not 
tell. The only motion is once when he seems quietly to 
brush his garments. Is he thinking of the long re- 
searches and the dust of the ancient Court Records which 
he had courted and breathed through so many persistent 
years — picking up here and there a bonanza. For now 
and then that dust with its microbes had been richer 
than gold-dust from the mines ! 

And now this Old Mortality of the Land of the Ever- 
greens, and the picturesque statue, had the ghosts of Hol- 
den's Creek all to themselves in the solitude, and dim 
forms came and went. 



Makemieland Memorials 45 

II. 

Two young maidens, lithe and airy, their arms en- 
twined, come out from the primitive Colonial home and 
take their seats under the cedars near the brink of the 
stream. It was far away in the shadowy Sixteen-Nineties, 
the sparse settlers widely scattered, and the two sisters 
were oftentimes lonely. Around them and pressing close 
was the great wilderness of the Evergreens. These two 
had been the old plodder's sweethearts during the years of 
his researches. 

Naomi and Comfort were a goodly pair, their names 
hinting of Puritan strains somewhere — Pleasantness and 
Cheer. And they were fresh and winsome, flesh and 
blood abloom, for had not the Virgin Colony the fair- 
cheeked and bright-eyed and rich-toned lassies all the 
way down from Pocahontas' days? The beautiful and 
romantic did not tarry for the rattle of steam and the 
glare of electric lights. Pretty maidens played with hearts 
in the mellow haze of tallow-dips sweetened with the 
odors of the myrtle. You moderns have no corner on the 
fascinations ! 

Naomi's eyes are turned toward, the jeweled bosom 
of Pocomoke Sound, following the windings of the 
Creek, and as far-sighted as the fish-hawks. Good King 
William and his noble Queen are upon the Throne, and 
the "killing-time" in the Old County has paused ; but there 
are pirates upon the coast and Sloop Tabitha may yet be 
caught on her voyages to Barbadoes. What care the 
Buccaniers for Cupid ! Then Comfort teased her sister, 
for girls have had tantalizing ways even from of old, 
and the younger sister said: 

"Naomi, your Hebrew name has a pleasing synonym, 



46 Makemieland Memorials 

but methinks that the bearer of it is not very companion- 
able on this quiet eve. The sparkle is absent from your 
eyes and the sea-fogs seem to have shrouded your counte- 
nance. I fear that you are overstraining your optics ! 
Shall I bring you the spy-glass which a certain young 
Missionary sailor left in your keeping?" 

And then she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, Naomi, 
Naomi, pleasant enough now, the fogs have vanished 
from your pretty face and it beams like a sunburst on 
the Chesapeake ! I see — I see — it is the white sail in the 
bends !" 

Gracefuly the little sloop tacks and jibes and winds 
her way around the curves like a seagull seeking its 
nest. 

"I shall not be wanted in the tryst," said Comfort 
and turned to the house. ."A second cook is not needed 
for the broth !" 

"Stay, stay," pleaded the older, as girls always do. 
They never mean it. 

The boat seems to know the channel and has no diffi- 
culty in finding the Anderson mooring-grounds. The 
young Ulster boy, of the blue eyes, his rich complexion 
somewhat browned with the Trophic suns, brings not for 
the first time the Southern fruits and the corals, and is 
soon seated by her side — here where Old Hundred 
sounded to-day. 

Of course like Shakespeare's hero, young Francis re- 
cites his adventures upon the deep, and tells of her eyes 
being the stars, her fair face the cynosure, that guided 
him from the Indies. Oh these Preachers! That Bible 
in the hand of the statue says there is nothing new under 
the sun. 

"But, Francis," she asks, "there among the romantic 



Makemieland Memorials 47 

islands and poetic orange groves, saw you not many a 
Spanish maiden very beautiful and with black eyes out- 
shining Naomi's?" 

How modern it all sounds! Oh these Eastern Shore 
girls! And then, Francis, Oh Francis, you vowed that 
there never were such eyes as hers — never — and the kill- 
dees and knee-deeps and black birds heard you swear it. 

Then Francis told her of his next voyage. Were not 
these trading trips to relieve the poor Colonists from the 
burden of his support ? Sloop Tabitha was his Deaconess. 

"The English and Irish and Scotch and Huguenot 
refugees," he said, "are hungering for the Gospel manna 
and impatient for the white-sail. The Pocomoke and 
Annamessex and Monokin and Wicomico are to become 
streams of gladness whose life-giving currents are to flow 
abroad and fertilize the continent." 

Then the dear girl, just like the girls, asks again, "And 
is there not some Presbyterian fairy, up at your favorite 
Rehoboth or at Snow Hill or on the banks of the other 
Jordan? or Kidrons — some Bray or King or Dryden or 
Spence — whose pulse beats quicker when you come, who 
thinks of other sweets besides the Gospel manna, and 
whose river-charms may win you from Holden's Creek?" 

So it has been and will be. We old folks see the 
symptoms all around us. There are other Evergreens 
besides the pines. As the dream runs on, there seem to 
be pulsating veins in that statue on the Monument. 

This brought the crisis and Francis said : "This hill 
is Padan Aram and here Isaac has traced his shepherdess. 
Ere another voyage, why not now the holy time when 
the magnet becomes my own, the loneliness of the son 
of Donegal ended, a wedded home for two, and mine in- 
deed the wild-rose of the wilderness ! Your Father is 



48 Makemieland Memorials 

our honored Magistrate and why delay the banns ? Thus 
let the Eastern Shore weave bridal wreaths from her 
Evergreens !" 

Then from the Holy Book up there on the Monu- 
ment comes the poem, "The wilderness and the solitary 
place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice 
and blossom as the rose!" 

III. 

An interval, and there was a shifting of scenes as 
by some stagemanager unseen. The yellow documents 
and hazy legends of the old man's zealous investigations 
were like things that live. Past and present merged. 
The Monument was alive. 

That fair-haired, blue-eyed voyager has grown older, 
old beyond his years. With camlet cloak and Boston 
cane, the tired Crusader is back from the Wars and is 
resting on this memorial hill with two little girls at his 
side. These little girls are to be the links that bind him 
to the Eastern Shore cradles forever! 

"Tell us all about it," said thoughtful Elizabeth ; "did 
they treat you badly, Papa?" 

"Who dares to treat Papa badly?" retorted spirited 
Anne ; "just the best Papa in the world ! I'd stick them 
with my needle !" 

They amused and rested him. He answered, "There 
are people who do not like your Father as well as his little 
daughters do. And they don't want him to preach." 

"You are the dearest, smartest, sweetest preacher that 
ever was !" asserted Elizabeth. "On next Sunday all our 
neighbors will flock to this hill to hear you. Even the 
white gulls will pause and listen!" 



Makemieland Memorials 49 

"If anybody tries to choke Papa off from preaching, 
I'll throw them in the Creek/' fulminated belligerant 
Anne. 

Father smiles at the budding chivalry. He did not 
know that ere two years were gone, he and Elizabeth 
would be sleeping side by side under the sod upon this 
hill — binding him to all Eastern Shore little graves. Nor 
did he know what a Rebel the younger sister is to be 
before the century closes ! 

"It is this way, my Girlies," the Father explains. "For 
many dark years the powers in bleeding Europe tried to 
compel everybody to believe and worship as the rulers 
dictated. Church and State were in an evil partnership, 
bad for both. Your Father was a witness of the fierce 
persecutions in Ireland and Scotland. I saw my own Pas- 
tor ousted from his pulpit at Ramelton and kept in prison 
year after year." 

"I would have knocked their heads off," flashed the 
young insurgent, her namesake on the English throne not 
more Queenly. There would be more Virginia girls of 
that type in the years to come. 

"These were the troubles," explained the Father, 
"which sent your Papa to the Western wilds. I came 
to spy out a new Canaan for the oppressed. Even little 
boys and little girls across the seas were wronged by the 
Established Churches." 

The old man under the cedars almost felt that the 
granite statue was speaking. That day many children 
were mingling among the older people in the Dedication. 
A little boy with Makemie blood in his veins had been 
on the sacred grounds. The citizenship of the future 
had been imbibing wholesome memories from McCook 
and his compeers. 



50 Makemieland Memorials 

"Ecclesiastical tyrants die hard," the voice seems to 
say. "Europe is in a ferment. It may require centuries 
for the complete overthrow of that dire concubinage of 
Church and State. But eventually nation after nation 
will throw off the incubus. It will be contested here, but 
in God's ordination these Western climes are to supply 
the object-lesson. 

"Your Father has just returned from the first success- 
ful fight. I did not seek and I did not shirk the conflict. 
Traveling to the land of the Mathers, in New York I was 
incarcerated for preaching a sermon and baptizing a little 
child. Thus the babies yet to be are parties in interest 
in this warfare. 

"A cousin of Queen Anne, but a bad man and un- 
righteous Governor, tried" his best to have your Father 
condemned and punished as a felon !'' 

"Poor man," said Elizabeth, stroking her Father's 
hair, "he did not know any better ; he did not know my 
Papa !" 

"Yes, old Cornbury did know better," declared the 
embryo Revolutionist; "he ought to be driven out. I'll 
help!" 

Said the Father, greatly amused, "We can safely leave 
him and all his ills to the real Sovereign of this Continent, 
the Lord God of Hosts. The oppressor has received a 
staggering blow. I have suffered and my health seems 
shattered, but the victory outweighs the cost. My daugh- 
ters, see you those mists overhanging the Chesapeake? 
See them lifting, dissolving, scattering before the sun- 
beams. So the shadows will fade from the nations and 
the alliances of despot and bigot pass away. I am glad 
that I was thrust into the breach !" 

"My Papa is either Moses or Elijah," said Elizabeth. 



Makemieland Memorials 51 

"He is both," declared the Junior Champion; "and he 
is David and John the Baptist and Paul and Calvin and 
Knox and a hundred more. Wish I could get at wicked 
old Cornbury!" 

The aged dreamer under the cedars was fondling 
Makemie's little girls in his arms, for he loved them 
well. Once the old fellow had written a book about our 
Founder, and they laughed at him because he flung a 
reverential fancy loose upon those far away scenes in 
order to dress the skeletons in flesh and blood. Then he 
laughed at the critics who forgot that these is no true 
history without the imagination. 

And it was even so the old dreamer seemed at the 
close of that day to see the little Makemie girls strolling 
about the Monument and wondering what the thousands 
of footprints meant! 

IV. 

It is in the last quarter of the century of which 
Makemie and his daughters saw the beginning. It is an 
epoch that has its grasp upon future ages. The little 
woman who wept at her Father's grave upon this hill in 
1708, is an old white-haired woman now, with many acres 
and seventy-eight negroes and the memory of three dead 
husbands and with patriotism abounding and with a pecu- 
liar sneeze. The children will be imitating that sneeze 
after her death. Yonder brick enclosure holds grand- 
parents and parents and sister Elizabeth — holds all of her 
American kith and kin. She stands like a last Evergreen 
in a great field. She has been a winner of hearts and is 
a live widow yet. 

The spirit of Makemie will not default while Anne 



52 Makemieland Memorials 

Holden lives. She is too old to mount her war-steed 
like Joan of Arc, but others can be equipped and fired 
by her chivalry. After awhile, childless, the last of her 
line, she will see that these lands are held by no Tory 
proprietor. Holden's Creek is a Rebel. She has trans- 
ferred her hatred from Cornbury to Cornwallis ! 

A gunboat swings into the little stream, mad for the 
rich widow and for revenge and rapine. Makemie's fol- 
lowers walk the land traitors to King George. Civil and 
religious liberty rendezvous between the Bays. That in- 
surrectionary sneeze must be suppressed! 

Few now survive who ever saw Sloop Tabitha, but 
the champions of an unshackled Church survive ! That 
pugnacious little girl still lives. Her neighbors are loyal 
to the old Lady, Ulster blood Virginianized, and John 
Milligan has no trouble in gathering a brave band. In a 
pine grove now undermined by the encroaching tides over 
yonder, all sorts of firearms and angry fusillades scare 
the invaders back. Madam triumphantly sneezes ! and 
brave John Milligan shall own the land he defended ! 

Yes, and the old dreamer smiles again, for he remem- 
bers how a niece of John Milligan positively fixed the 
site of that old brick enclosure — an old white-haired 
woman, once a little girl playing barefoot upon that brick 
wall — without whose definite memory Makemie's and 
Madam Holden's burial place would never have been 
identified nor the Monument ever built. Thus Milligan's 
defiant rifle is still reverberating — and our Old Mortality 
smiled. 

Those historic days pass along, the aged Madam's 
heart in every campaign. The Man of Mount Vernon 
has no truer friend. The women of the Revolution were 
more than Trojan — they were American. When King 
George lost their hearts, he lost all! 



Makemieland Memorials 53 

What is that deep booming the Madam hears across 
the waters? The war has been transferred to the Chesa- 
peake, and Washington and Cornwallis face each other 
for a final grapple. The duel is on at Yorktown. The 
Eastern Shore holds her breath! 

Now rises and swells the rumor of surrender. All 
the tributaries of the Mother of Waters, which Makemie 
so greatly praised, are agitated; and none more so than 
Holden's Creek. Then conies the confirmation of the 
news, and Holden's Creek is in a conflagration of bon- 
fires. Cornbury warring against Religious Liberty and 
Cornwallis warring against Civil Liberty have both been 
beaten. The Madam knows that the Pioneers have not 
lived in vain and she triumphantly sneezes ! 

V. 

The imposing personage on its granite pedestal, and 
the dreamer of dreams under the Evergreens, had been 
intensely silent, no words needed — there where the crowds 
had been gathered and had vanished like the vanishing 
of the generations. There in its solitude the solemn shaft 
is far more impressive than amid the concourses of the 
living. Alas for hearts that cannot feel its sublimity in 
standing guard forever over the sacred dust ! 

The moon was silvery, the landscapes and the presence 
of the noble dead hallowed the scene. Was the aged 
hermit in the body or out of the body when he aroused 
and addressed the Prophet upon the rock? 

'Hail, fellow watcher! It is appropriate that Old 
Age and the Monuments should keep company together. 
We are kindred milestones along the years. We cannot 
get along without our dead. They still walk the earth as 



54 Makemielaxd Memorials 

a stimulus — in history, in legend, in poesy, in the in- 
spirations and aspirations. 

"( Hir Eastern Shore Indians revered the sleeping 
places of the departed and, when they left the Peninsula, 
they carried with them as their chief treasures the bones 
and the relics of their dead. Civilization cannot survive 
desecrations. 

"You, niv Makemie, did not live to be old, child of 
Donegal, adopted son of Virginia. Among the beginnings 
you went in your prime. Your daughter, almost doubling 
your age, lived to see the flower and fruitage ; the country 
independent, the Church free. The dead are our livest 
citizens and our most wholesome companions. With you 
I left Loch Swilley ; with you I sailed the ocean ; with 
you I sought the Eastern Shore ; with you I preached 
at Rehoboth ; with you I gathered the little bands of Pres- 
byterians. I traveled with you, as Luke traveled with 
Paul. 

"My Makemie. you and your contemporaries planted 
diversified crops upon our Eastern Shore. Yes, you 
planted the Gospel and its great sterling Calvinistic doc- 
trines, but in the same furrows you planted sentiment, 
and the refinements of life, and the love of books, and 
poetry, and music, and sweet homes, and the love of wife 
and children, and the love of the Land of the Evergreens. 
Imagination has never had sweeter outings than following 
upon your footsteps. 

"The Monuments are our Seers and our Bards. The 
Monuments are our anchors. The Monuments and the 
Graves are our bosom-friends. I inhale the odors from 
the Eternal Gardens !" 

The old man, again lifting his hat, saluting the former 
days, bowing to the silent' granite, passed away like a 
shadow of the pines. 



Makemieland Memorials 55 

Dawn and 'Mid-Day. 



"Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as th„ 
moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?" — 
Cant. 6. 10. 

By the foundations of the old Temple the Hebrew 
still has his Weeping Place. The Briton feels the spell 
of Westminster Abbey, Stratford on Avon, Runnymede. 
The Scotch Presbyterian thrills at the mention of Gray 
Friars' Court, the House of John Knox, Bothwell's 
Bridge, Killierankie. The Eastern Shore Calvinist, where- 
ever he drifts, turns back in heart-pilgrimages to 
Wicomico, Monokin, Buckingham, Snow Hill, Rocka- 
walkin, Pitts Creek and Rehoboth. 

There is poetry and inspiration in standing where 
the Pioneers have stood; where the old-time fathers and 
mothers planted the Doctrines ; and where in venerable 
cemeteries is reposing the dust of the saints. Here we 
dream our picturesque dreams of the morning dawn, the 
rising moon, the ascending sun and the blue banners of 
our American Presbyterianism. 

For awhile I sketch briefly seven or eight of the habi- 
liments and pieces of armor in which the panoplied 
Church looketh forth as the morning. 

1. The Enthusiasms of her History. Every clause in 
her Standards has its pedigree running back to the Xew 
Testament and to the Old. Every brighter spot in the 
annals of Redemption, even amid the darkest ages, was 
an oasis of Presbyterianism and Calvinism. In the Vales 
of Piedmont, in Iona's Isle, the Apostolic germ survived. 
As said our Makem£e, "By all computation, Presby- 
terians and Calvinists, with such as are in communion 



56 Makemieland Memorials 

\\ ith them, are the greater part and the better part of the 
Reformation.'' 

Said John Morley, the accomplished Historian, "Cal- 
vinism saved Europe during the Sixteenth Century." Then 
torn and bled in Europe, our Church was flung upon the 
American shores. In the spots all along the coast where 
orthodox Dutch and Huguenot and Puritan and Scotch 
and Scotch-Irish found lodgment, there was no spot more 
luminous with the genuine and unadulterated than in these 
regions between the Bays. Right here as the advanced 
guard in 1683 appeared our blue-eyed, fair-complexioned, 
light-haired son of the Emerald Isle. Makemie was to 
face opposers, but our young Irishman knew how to wield 
the shalalah. Speaking of the overthrow of the Stuart 
Dynasty, he exclaims: "Blessed be God for our season- 
able and happy Revolution that has in a great measure 
broke the deep projects of that Jesuitical party and, by 
an established liberty to all Dissenting Protestants, has 
bound the hands of former persecutors." 

But young Francis did not know that the persecutors 
were yet to make their fight on this continent against 
him and his, and that in a hundred years there was to 
be another Revolution when the Presbyterian hosts were 
to be literally an army with banners. Says the Historian, 
Bancroft : "He who does not honor the name and in- 
fluence of Calvin betrays his ignorance of the origin of 
American liberty." And declares another terse writer: 
"The Shorter Catechism fought the War of Indepen- 
dence." 

Here along the sparkling Eastern Shore water-courses, 
the Matchatank, Holden's Creek, the Onancock, the 
Monokin, the Wicomico, the Pocomoke, was planted the 
sifted wheat. I see our Founder's white- winged sloop 



Makemielaxd Memorials 57 

threading these streams freighted with the tenets of 
of Geneva and the Pauline Epistles; I see Pony Button 
exploring pine woods and cypress jungles with Confes- 
sion of Faith and brace of pistols in the holsters. Thus 
the young Rehoboth of 227 years ago, looking forth as 
the morning, was to be the prolific mother of thousands 
of churches in forty-six great commonwealths in the Yet- 
To-Be ! 

2. The inspiration of sturdy Bible doctrines. There 
they stood from the beginning, rugged as Scotia's crags. 
Says the Historian Froude, not a Presbyterian : "Cal- 
vinism is the spirit which rises in revolt against all un- 
truth ; it is but the inflashing upon the conscience of the 
laws by which mankind are governed." The great his- 
toric Five Points — Sovereign Election, Definite Atone- 
ment, Universal Depravity, Efficacious Grace, Final Per- 
severance — these have been the builders of character and 
of history. I love to repeat Makemie's answer to the 
threat of the profligate Governor of New York: "You 
shall not spread your pernicious doctrine here !" Then 
the bold retort rang back : "As to our doctrine, my Lord, 
we have our Confession of Faith, which is known to the 
Christian world, and I challenge all the clergy of York to 
show us any false or pernicious doctrine therein!" 

That challenge is still out. The Makemie Churches 
cherish the faith of the fathers. They stand pat on the 
doctrines. The erratic laxness now and then besetting 
other sections has never invaded Makemieland. Very 
radiant have been the morning beams, the lustrous moon- 
rays, the clear shining of the sun, the bright legends upon 
our ensigns. 

3. Our God-given Church Polity. When the father- 



58 Makemieland Memorials 

in-law of Moses suggested that Board of Elders, the Pres- 
bytery in the wilderness, he proved his statesmanship for 
all time. Christ and all his Apostles grew up in Presby- 
terian Synagogues. The only ordination ever thought of 
by Paul was by laying on of Presbyterial hands. 

Said the Bishop of Durham, the most learned of them 
all : "The office which the Apostles instituted was in a 
kind of rule not by Bishops but by Presbyters ; and even 
down to the Third Century Presbyters as well as Bishops 
possessed the power of nominating and consecrating 
Bishops ; and, besides, there were from the commence- 
ment of the Middle Ages down to the Reformation large 
exceptions from the principle of Episcopal government 
which can be called by no other name than Presbyterian." 
Such was the little Presbytery organized by Makemie in 
Philadelphia in 1706 — a full-blood daughter of those im- 
mortalized by Paul. Our Founder emphasizes the 
spiritual oversight: "Our Lord Jesus has prescribed 
spiritual laws and constituted a suitable government and 
spiritual rule in His Church, entrusted to particular per- 
sons to be duly executed." Thus like Jethro and Moses 
our Pioneer planted another Presbytery in the wilderness. 
Thus our Divinely-ordained series of graded Courts pre- 
empted the New World, looking forth as the morning. 

4. A wholesome charm in her simple forms of zvor- 
ship. Her unostentatious and impressive sacraments ; her 
spontaneous prayers; her emphasis upon the Scriptures 
as read and preached; her sound devotional Psalmody; 
no sensational freaks in the pulpit, no sacrilegious 
mountebank, no smart Alecks to laugh people into the 
kingdom; no aping of the liturgical or other attempts 
to engraft diverse systems upon our native olive tree; 
everything thoughtful, solemn, reverent, elevating. Says 



Makemieland Memorials 59 

Makemie: "We do not receive nor comply with stinted 
and imposed forms and liturgies because not commanded 
nor warrented by the Word of God nor known in the 
purest and original centuries of the Gospel Churches." 
The Makemie Churches do not take kindly to intrusive 
innovations. 

It is winsome to hear our old hero telling of: "The 
experiences of thousands of the Godly, of ravishings of 
soul and ineffable joy and comfort from praising God." 
So we love to hear him tell of his personal delight in 
the old Communion Seasons : "My own experience of 
the grace, blessing and benefits of this great, special and 
solemn ordinance." These virgin forests knew what ex- 
perimental religion meant. The ways of the fathers, the 
spiritual elevations acclimated on this conservative Pen- 
insula — ah yes, the old-time religion is good enough for 
us ! and for 200 more years to come ! Thus the Bride of 
the Lamb, with the dews of the dawn upon her, looked 
forth as the morning. 

5. The amenities of genuine Church culture. She 
accepted her commission literally, "Go teach all nations." 
Her insistence upon an educated ministry and her empha- 
sis upon the indoctrination of the young, have enriched 
the world with vast bonanzas. Makemie brought to 
these Shores the stamp of the University of Glasgow and 
the impress of a cultured Presbytery. Assailants of the 
faith found him equipped for the arena. Led to Christ 
when a boy by a Godly Schoolmaster, his heart naturally 
believed in early piety and the schools. Make a note on it. 
The American Presbyterian Church was built on a con- 
version in boyhood. So we hear him saying: "The ad- 
vantages of our early education is witnessed by the ex- 
perience of many Godly of all ages, where attended with 



6o Makemieland Memorials 

the blessing of God and pursued with exhortation until 
they arrive at a riper age." The first book written amid 
these sea-breezes was Makemie's Catechisnn which he 
sowed among the pines. These Makemie Churches are 
rightfully the Children's Churches. They stand for an 
intelligent piety. 

Says a writer of note : "The little Republic of Geneva 
was the sun of the European mind." Says another au- 
thority: "For the first 200 years of American History 
almost every College and Seminary of Learning, and al- 
most every Academy and Common School even, had been 
built and sustained by Calvinists." So says the Bride: 
"I would lead thee and bring thee into my mother's house 
who would instruct me." Thus instructed, our youthful 
Church looked forth as the morning. 

6. 1 love to speak of the stimulus of inherited religious 
blood. The pulse of Eastern Shore Presbyterianism, un- 
der such heart-beats, should throb full and strong. Born 
of Presbyterian parentage, rocked in Presbyterian cradles, 
nursed upon Presbyterian milk, dandled in Presbyterian 
arms, trained in Presbyterian traditions, fed upon the 
marrow of Presbyterian Divinity, this is typical blue 
blood. 

I stood by the dying bed of a daughter of one of these 
Makemie Churches dying in St. Louis. I saw the golden 
bowl breaking, the silver cord loosing. Bidding brother, 
husband, children all good-bye, face already gilded with 
the radiance of the Land that needs no moon or sun, we 
thought her done with earth. Once more she came back 
and said : "I would love to have one more glimpse of 
the old Eastern Shore — the pine woods, the laurel blooms, 
the prattling brooks, the play-grounds, the dear old 
Churches of the fathers!" And then she was gone. I 



Makemieland Memorials 6i 

think she and the angels passed Heavenward this way. 
It was the face of one that looketh forth as the morning. 

7. The appropriation of an assured future. Wel- 
come, ye revered of other days, to the front seats in these 
Sanctuaries. Moses comes and Isaiah comes and Paul 
comes, gathering with God's people. And Calvin comes 
and Knox comes and Makemie comes and our buried 
loved ones come. Enter, ye worshipers of other days, 
and face these pulpits. See, the shadowy forms passing 
up the aisles. The sacred past is ours ! 

But I hear other footsteps entering and advancing — 
the congregations after you and I are gone. The home- 
nurseries and the primary classes, the children and the 
children's children, these are partners too in interest. The 
Church of God is a perpetual bloomer. The future is 
ours ! God declared the Abrahamic Covenant an "Ever- 
lasting Covenant." Boys and girls are still its heirs and 
heiresses. "Let us. get up early to the vineyard ; let us see 
if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear and 
the pomegranates bud forth; then will I give thee my 
loves." 

These sweet hymns will be sung by other singers. 
These pulpits will be filled by pastors now in swaddling 
clothes. God's Electing Grace will go on gathering its 
trophies. There are revivals, there are refreshings, there 
are ingatherings yet to be. Expect it, count upon it, work 
toward it. It is full time for Makemieland to be up and 
doing. The promises look forth as the morning 

8. We should be in readiness to share in the mingled 
loves of the Bridegroom and the Bride. Now we put on 
the beautiful garments of expectancy. The optimist is 
right — bright scenes and still brighter on ahead. A lover 
of the beautiful from babyhood, cultivating the bright 



62 Makemieland Memorials 

side of things, I have never seen anything more exqui- 
site than a hearty, harmonious, expectant, zealous, happy 
Church membership — busily dutiful, aggressive, ready for 
the coming of the King! 

Makemie Churches revived and alert, Makemie 
Churches with every household under the baptisms of the 
Holy Ghost, Makemie Churches bringing every burning 
heart to the front — Solomon in all his glory never more 
royally arrayed. And why not? Have these old citidels 
of our Founder lost their grip? Are they barely holding 
their own ? Here in this favored section where it started, 
has Presbyterianism done its best, stagnated and settled 
upon its lees? 

This Peninsula ought to have been a Presbyterian 
Peninsula. Has somebody loitred? Has somebody slept 
upon his post? Makemie found it Missionary ground. 
It is still Missionary ground. There are splendid possi- 
bilities within your reach. The spirit of the past salutes 
you. You are kneeling where many a father and mother 
in Israel has knelt. Old memories will help you. These 
ancient Shrines will help you. The graveyards will help 
you — for they too at His coming shall look forth as the 
morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun and glorious 
as conquering heroes with their banners ! 

Come stand with me on your white beaches in the 
presence of the vast expanse of waters. It is night. Im- 
mensity—the roll, the boom, the mystery, the impenetra- 
ble — the mighty ocean' shrouded! Over these surges 
Makemie brought the Ark to your Shores. The Infinite 
is there— holding the depths in the hollow of His hand. 
Thick darkness veils the profound magnificence like the 
veil upon the counsels of God. There are mighty throb- 
bings — but we cannot see ! 



Makemieland Memorials 63 

Straining our eyes in awe, lo, something undefined 
appears upon the vague horizon— a fleecy haze, a premo- 
nition of light, a pervading glimmer; now glimpses of 
billows and white-caps; the dim illumination spreading 
like a smile. The eye begins to take its bearings, and, 
behold, the gentle queen of night walks forth in celestial 
radiance like a saint from the tomb; moonlight on the 
waters — old ocean in vestments of silver. It is one of the 
poems of the Eastern Shore. "Fair as the moon!" 

Look again. An hour has passed. New streaks and 
more vivid appear in the East, spangles darting toward 
the zenith — a broadening effulgence — panoramas of splen- 
dors — and, lo, the king of day emerges, coming forth like 
a bridegroom from his chambers. This is another of 
the treasures of Makemieland. "Clear as the sun !" 

And now the perspective mantles with effulgence ; the 
pine woods bordering the deep illuminated ; the martialed 
surges in battalions and phalanxes ; boundless ocean alive 
and visible ; the unfathomable lift and evolutions — rolling 
on like eternity — "terrible as an army with banners I" 

So we stand and look forth upon the forces of Re- 
demption, the profound developments of God's Covenant. 
They too have their night-hours. "Verily Thou art a 
God that hidest Thyself." Ah the mysteries, the depths 
unfathomed, the thundering and the undertow ! Men 
come and go, generations come and go, centuries come 
and go. Pulpits and pews are emptied. The graveyards 
fill. God's purposes move on undisturbed. The Infinite 
is there ! The Bride of the Lamb is putting on her 
attire — in the dark. 

Lo, Millennial streaks appear along the horizon, God 
has His hand upon the billows, the onward sweep of the 
tides. Jesus is walking the waves of Genessaret and the 



04 Makemieland Memorials 

Chesapeake and the Seven Seas. The gates of hell are 
not prevailing. 

The Church has her infancy but no old age. She sees 
the streaks in the East. "The morning cometh" — "the 
Day-spring from on high." The Heavens grow luminous. 
"Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as 
the moon, clear as the sun and formidable as an army 
with banners !" • 



Makemieland Memorials 65 

Rehoboth— the Mother Church 



The question as to priority of age between our Make- 
mie Churches was never worth a conflict. Unquestion- 
ably they all came into existence very near the same time, 
as soon as their Founder could visit them and gather the 
patches of Presbyterians into these centers. But when 
positive and unsupported claims are made, Rehoboth 
must not let the truth go by default. We therefore con- 
dense the incontrovertible facts: 

1. A hundred years, during his life and after his 
death, there is not one recorded fact connecting Ma- 
kemie's name with any other Maryland Church than Re- 
hoboth. 

2. The first settlements of Somerset County, now the 
three counties of Somerset and Worcester and Wicomico, 
were, as the recorded land-patents show, from the Chesa- 
peake side, at the mouth of the rivers, advancing scat- 
teringly toward the ocean — the early population chiefly 
between the Pocomoke, Annamessex and the Monokin. 
Hence the Court Houses were in that section, first in 
Revell's Neck and then on Dividing Creek. All others 
were built long after Makemie's day. Most of the Pres- 
byterians were in those territories and in easy reach of 
Rehoboth — then Pocomoke Town. 

3. Col. William Stevens, the most prominent Eastern 
Shore official, Judge of the County Court from its organi- 
zation in 1666 till his death in 1687, also a member of 
the Provincial Council and a Deputy Lieutenant of Lord 
Baltimore, lived at this centre on his Rehoboth Plantation 
patented in 1665. Just below him lived Judge Francis 



66 Makemieland Memorials 

Jenkins, Makemie's personal friend. Near by lived Judge 
George Layfield who married Stevens' widow. In the 
same vicinity lived the High Sheriff White, brother-in-law 
of Stevens and buried in the same graveyard. These are 
pregnant facts — no other such centre of influence in all 
the wide county. Even back in 1672, eleven years before 
Makemie's arrival, we find the great English Quaker, 
George Fox, preaching there to crowds of whites and 
Indians and arranging for monthly meetings at that point. 
The same year the Grand Jury, with David Brown, a 
Scotch Presbyterian, as Foreman and Judge Stevens pre- 
siding, appointed regular religious services there — and 
at only three other points, one on the Annamessex, one 
on the lower Monokin and another on the lower 
Wicomico. Those familiar with the geography will see 
the relevancy of these facts. These data from the an- 
cient Princess Anne Records locate the centres of popu- 
lation and influence. Rehoboth, then Pocomoke Town, 
was made a Port of Entry in 1683, the year of Makemie's 
arrival. The county prison was built there in 1701. 

4. Because of his prominence in the Colony and be- 
cause his home was a religious centre, its very name Re- 
hoboth implying toleration, "There is room," Stevens was 
selected by the Presbyterians to make application to the 
Presbytery of Laggan for a Minister. Why not from 
some other quarter than Rehoboth? Young Makemie, 
then twenty-two years old, heard that letter read with the 
name of Stevens affixed and there the young Theologian's 
mind is directed to America in December, 1680. How 
beautiful God's providence ! Not only did young Make- 
mie hear that application, but also the Stated Clerk, Wil- 
liam Trail, who was afterwards to be a neighbor of 
Stevens on the Pocomoke. Again how pregnant the facts ! 



Makemteland Memorials 67 

On Makemie's arrival in the Colony in 1683 and Trail's 
arrival in 1684, where and to whom arc they to report 
unless to Steven's and those neighbors who made the ap- 
plication? The tomb of Stevens is still legible and the 
foundations of the house still visible — the usual place of 
worship for Dissenters for eleven years preceding. There 
are no such interesting probabilities clustering around 
any other spot on the Peninsula. Remember there is not 
one single place or fact or historical landmark to rebut 
the inevitable conclusions. 

5. Makemie had been sent out as the advance guard 
to spy out the land for the persecuted Ministers, the whole 
Presbytery thinking of emigrating. The next year, 1684, 
the Stated Clerk follows and where does this able man 
settle ? Where does Makemie place the prominent leader, 
William Trail, who had helped to ordain him and who 
was one of the strongest in America ? For six years and 
until he went back to Scotland in 1690, Trail lives on his 
farm of "Brother's Love" on the Pocomoke only a little 
way below Rehoboth. During those years Samuel Davis 
was pastor at Snow Hill, the Court Records showing a 
marriage by him in 1684, a recorded will showing a be- 
quest to him in 1691, and an item indicating his removal 
to Lewes in 1697. During Trail's stay, Makemie had 
been doing evangelistic work, with his home down at 
Matchatank in Virginia. 

6. In 1 69 1, Trail now gone, we have again direct 
Record evidence of Makemie's preaching again at Re- 
hoboth— a funeral sermon and the details given in a Court 
trial. Thus he was evidently in charge again at Reho- 
both as soon as Trail left. We rely upon positive facts 
and dates in the Records and not on surmises ar asser- 



68 Makemieland Memorials 

tions. Note again that meanwhile the Maryland Records 
never mention him in connection with any other Church. 

y. There can be no doubt of her Founder's making 
his home at Rehoboth after his leaving his Matchatank 
plantation until his marriage. For the time he drops en- 
tirely out of the Virginia Records. Note that Rehoboth 
was first called Pocomoke Town. Now we see him writ- 
ing of "my house at Pocomoke." We know that he 
owned land there upon which a new Church was after- 
wards built. Record is made (1693) of corn to be de- 
livered to him "at the mill at Rehoboth." His answer to 
the Quaker Keith, who had assailed his Catechism, is 
written and dated "at Rehoboth in Pocomoke, Maryland" 
(1692). In the same Will of Galbraith (1691) in which 
Samuel Davies is described as "Minister at Snow Hill." 
Makemie is designated as "Minister of the Gospel at 
Rehoboth Town." These are attested facts, not inferences 
nor vague tradition. Amid these accumulated data, still 
bear in mind that with no other Church in Maryland do 
Jiis ozvn writings nor the Court Records nor any other 
Records associate the name of Francis Makemie. He 
may have preached in them and founded them, but it 
cannot be proved. 

8. In Makemie's Will (1708) we read of the new 
Church, the second in Rehoboth, and built upon his own 
grounds. Which of the other churches so favored? How 
carefully his Will guards the devise : "For ye ends and 
uses of a Presbyterian congregation and to their succes- 
sors forever ; and none else but to such of ye same per- 
suasion in matters of religion." Only one other Church 
is remembered in this last Testament — his library given to 
the Church in Philadelphia where he gathered the first 



Makemieland Memorials 69 

Presbytery. Is it not beautifully suggestive that he made 
these love-gifts to his first organized Church and his first 
organized Presbytery ? 

9. The testimony of Anne Makemie Holden's Pastor. 
During his long Pastorate of thirty-one years at Pitts 
Creek, Snow Hill and Rehoboth, Rev. Samuel McMaster 
over a hundred years ago left a manuscript history of 
his times — the first historical witness and one who knew 
Makemie's daughter for years and could have secured his 
facts from her. In the valuable published "Letters" of 
Irving Spence, an honored Snow Hill Elder of the past 
generation, is preserved the following extract from Mc- 
Master's History: "This first congregation, which wor- 
shipped at Rehoboth, consisted of English Dissenters. A 
fezv families migrated from England, their consciences 
not suffering them to comply with the Establishment then 
existing, and settled near the mouth of the Pocomoke 
river and the adjacent parts— some on the East and some 
on the West side of the river— and formed themselves 
into a religious Society for the public worship of God. 
A house for public worship was built on the West side 
of the river at a place called Rehoboth/' Who has ever 
impeached that testimony? Weigh every word and com- 
pare with Makemie's own writings and original authori- 
ties as detailed above. Here is the first historian and an 
intimate acquaintance of our Founder's daughter whom 
she remembers fondly in her Will, leaving him her 
Father's valued desk. It demands something more than 
the bold assertions of modern writers to discount such 
evidence. Taken in connection with the Court Records, 
it is conclusive and impregnable. 



jo Makemieland Memorials 

io. Dr. McDonald argues manfully for the seniority 
of Jamaica Church, Long Island, but his own facts prove 
that in its earlier years it was not a Presbyterian but a 
Congregational Church. He finally concedes that, "Mr. 
McNish may therefore be regarded as father of the Pres- 
byterian Church on Long Island." But McNish had come 
to America twenty-four years after Makemie, brought 
over by our Founder, in 1707, and had preached in Make- 
mieland four years before he went to Long Island ! 

11. In view of all these absolute facts, not as mis- 
stated by inexact historians and interested parties, but 
as based upon all the original documents, the Presbytery 
of New Castle, the Synod of Baltimore, and the General 
Assembly have defintiely accorded the rights of primo- 
geniture to Rehoboth. It is an adjudicated case. And 
against this verdict and concensus, and against the above 
array of invulnerable facts, there is no attempt at re- 
buttal except by the merest, reiterated assertion. 

The noble Monument on Holden's Creek turns its 
face impressively toward old Rehoboth, a few miles to 
the northward, with hand raised to Heaven in eloquent 
benediction. 



POEMS. 



Eastern Shore Wild Flowers; 
and Other Wild Things. 



Makemieland Memorials 7$ 



Eastern Shore Wild Flowers, 



FOREWORD— AT SEVENTY SEVEN. 

I've never seen the reason why 

God's children should grow old; 
I never knew why loving hearts 

Should shrivel and wax cold; 
The world is fresh and fair to-day 

As when the world began; 
God just the same the Fathers knew 

And just as good to man. 

There's optimism all abroad 

In all I hear and see; 
In old May pinks and lilac bloom, 

In bird and honey bee; 
About my way the sunshine falls 

Sweet as a child's caress; 
Where birds are glad and blossoms smile, 

I breathe their youthfulness. 

I love the human face divine, 

I love the speaking eye ; 
I love the dimple in the cheek, 

The veil of modesty; 
I love the lilt of human tones, 

The spell of genial ways; 
I love the lassies just as well 

As in the puppy days ! 

I love the books, the deathless books, 

The tonics for the dull; 
The winsome authors, old and new, 

Benign, companionable, 



74 Makemieland Memorials 

Belles lettres and historians 

And songs the poets sung; 
And, hush, a novel now and then — 

It helps to keep me young ! 

And then I love to scribble too, 

The pen its frisky time ; 
Stray fun that's lurking everywhere, 

And little spurts of rhyme; 
For instance — sweet, eat, little feet, 

And moon and June and coon; 
It holds blue devils in the leash 

And keeps the heart in tune ! 

If stupid hours come sneaking up, 

If tricky care besets, 
Go take a ramble through the woods 

And pick the violets. 
Thiee score and ten? Oh very well — 

Some pines are in their teens, 
Some sept^u/agenarians, 

But all are evergreens ! 

If appetite coquets a wee, 

Then take your line and hook 
And tramp the everglades and find 

The sunfish in his nook ; 
And spy upon the fairy folks 

Among the myrtle bushes, 
And see the naiads where they swim 

Among the flags and rushes. 

These neighboring Bays have boyhood's ways, 

No dotage in the waters; 
The rivers dance on girlishly, 

And all their brooklet daughters; 
There's no dull care in ozone air, 

Stars twinkle as of yore — 
No sense at all in growing old 

On youthful Eastern Shore ! 



Makemieland Memorials 75 



FRANCIS MAKEMIE 

Proud Presbyterians o£ the Eastern Shore, 
Your pride is orthodox. Put backbone there, 
A clean escutcheon, no bar sinister, 
Since Paul laid on his Presbyterial hands 
And Peter's pen declared his Eldership. 
In bleak Iona's Isle, in Piedmont vales, 
Straight pedigree till gallant Knox in Scotland, 
And, mightiest brain of Reformation days, 
Geneva's peerless seer and sun, John Calvin, 
Brought Presbytery to its own again. 

Like Canaan for her Abraham 

Awaiting dawn of day, 
So waited here between the Bays 

Our old Peninsula ; 
Fragrant as myrtle 'mid her pines, 

Strong as her sturdiest oak, 
He comes, the Paul of Accomack, 

The Knox of Pocomoke! \ 

Popery was raging on the Continent, 
Prelacy ran amuck in the British Isles. 
The blood of Presbyterian martyrs flowed 
On hill and dale and cried aloud to Heaven. 
Our God was sifting out the finest wheat 
To sow it broadcast on the Western wilds. 
Between the Bays, a respite from the storms, 
And sheltered in the groves, staunch refugees 
From fire and sword of Prelates and their Kings, 
Appealed to Ulster for leadership and guide. 

Upon the hills of Donegal 

A young man hears the plea; 
From hearth and home he turns away 

And sails the unknown sea; 
Makemie comes ! Along the coast 

The morning dawn awoke — 
John Calvin of the Matchatank, 

John Knox of Pocomoke! 



j6 Makemieland Memorials 

As Paul on every shore sought God's elect 
And faced unmoved the Mediterranean gales, 
So went Makemie forth to all the winds; 
His sloop Tabitha to a hundred streams, 
His faithful Button trudging pathless swamps. 
He planted Churches as he planted corn — 
Rehoboth, Wicomico and Snow Hill, 
Monokin, Rockawalkin and Pitts Creek — 
From fair Onancock up to Buckingham, 
The lilies and the seabirds tracked his course. 

I hear the brave forefathers sing, 

I hear the old-time Psalm; 
It echoes from the blue Bayside 

On up to Buckingham; 
By cabin-fires, in woodland glens, 

The Gospel sunrise broke — 
Apostle of the Land of Streams, 

The Knox of Pocomoke ! 

The Western world had need of one like him, 
The true, historic, Presbyterian grit. 
The persecutors still were on his trail. 
To feed and aggrandize an alien faith, 
They wrest the godless tithes from all he had: 
Corrupt and vile Cornbury in the North 
Arrested, swindled, flung him into jail. 
America's first legal fight for men's 
Religious liberty, he waged and won. 
From Barbadoes to Boston flashed the light. 

Unflinching, bold, serene he stood 

And braved the Despot's frown; 
To Pope or Prelate's myrmedous 

He threw the gauntlet down; 
With sturdy fist he struck the blow 

Which rent the oppressor's yoke — 
This Calvin of the Eastern Shore, 

This Knox of Pocomoke! 



Makemieland Memorials yy 

Down by the glistening waves of Holden's Creek 

Arose a model home. The genial winds 

From Bay and Ocean fanned its groves and flowers. 

There fair Naomi, Virginia's bonnie brde, 

Enriched his life and gave him two wee girls. 

His Bettie and his Anne. And homes like that, 

All Simon-pure, of Presbyterian type, 

His Calvanism planted far and wide — 

Sweet sea-girt homes which mothered you and me, 

And shone like stars beneath o'erarching blue. 

Ye cabins of the Pioneers, 

Old-fashioned, rude and quaint, 
You've sown these ancient graveyards 

With many a grand old saint; 
You listened and your firesides warmed 

While your Makemie spoke — 
High Admiral of the Chesapeake, 

The Knox of Pocomoke ! 

Time came, predestinated of our God, 

When Northward in the Town of Penn, 

A church Court sat, by our staunch Leader led — 

A Western bloom from Apostolic gardens, 

Such as Paul saw ordaining Timothy. 

The wilderness blossomed, solitudes were glad, 

Quakers looked on askance, Anglicans demurred. 

But now was launched a force, destined to leave 

The Ritual and the Mystic, both extremes, benumbed, 

And fill the land from Hither to Farther Sea. 

All hail, ye stout old Presbyters ! 

For you the cross and crown; 
Ordained to lead America 

Toward her Millennial dawn. 
Makemie sees and heeds the sign — 

God's time-piece on the stroke; 
The Prophet of the Eastern Shore, 

The Knox of Pocomoke ! 



78 Makemieland Memorials 

Upon the banks of Holden's Creek he sleeps. 
The sparkle of the wavelets tell the tale 
Of crystal River and the Great White Throne. 
Since then what multitudes of graves on all 
These landscapes rest, tombs of the fathers, 
Blood of Covenanter, blood of Huguenot. 
Where ever soared a sounder Creed to Heaven ! 
Take off thy shoes ; we stand on holy ground, 
The burning bush burns on and unconsumed. 

Fling out your banner's spotless blue, 

The flag your Fathers bore 
Along the clear transparent streams 

Of good old Eastern Shore; 
The spirit of heroic sires 

To-day we re-invoke — 
The Paul of Sea-girt Accomack, 

The Knox of Pocomoke ! 

Time came apace, great Revolution days. 

Who were the Tories? Who the Patriots then? 

Makemie's sort forever in the van, 

The Presbyterian host on battle line! 

John Calvin Founder of America — 

So Ranke wrote. Father of Republics — 

So Bancroft wrote. Presbyterian women 

Sent forth their sons and cheered the victors on. 

Makemie's daughter, old and gray, brave Anne, 

In Accomack kept freedom to the fore ! 

She lived and loved and passed away 

Last of Makemie's blood ; 
But we, his children in the faith, 

Stand where our founders stood. 
His presence still pervades the pines 

And breathes by brae and brook — 
Apostle of the Chesapeake, 

The Knox of Pocomoke ! 



Makemieland Memorials 79 



IN THAT OLD PEW. 

The radiant Sunday mornings, 

And the balm of ocean breeze; 
The old Brick Sanctuary 

In its setting of oak trees; 
The fathers and the mothers 

And the solemn songs of praise, 
The tombstones through the windows 

And the glamour of young days ; 
How many blooms there came to birth, 
Found nowhere else on all the earth ! 

The bending of the Heavens, 

And the hearts that rise and soar; 
The Gospel trumpet sounding 

And the tones of Gaylord Moore ; 
Most beautiful of Mothers 

In the pew ahead of ours, 
And little brown-eyed girlie 

Like a peach among the flowers ; 
And while the people prayed and praised 
The dreaming lad sat there and gazed ! 

While the Parson told of angels 

In the Regions far and fair, 
The gazer never doubted 

But the Preacher spake of her; 
'Tis said her mother switched her 

For her fidgets and her mirth; 
He thought those Sunday antics 

The cunningest on earth; 
With what stored gems the future beamed, 
He never dreamed and no one dreamed ! 

She grew in grace and beauty 

Like a lily by the waters, 
For Buckingham had always 

Her white flocks of peerless daughters. 



80 . Makemieland Memorials 

A tripping, romping torn-boy— 

What miracles in life! 
That scamp to be a Preacher, 

That lass a Preacher's wife! 
All loved the lassie more and more, 
Because she loved both rich and poor! 

Winds wrecked the old Brick Temple 

And closed the Temple gates; 
Winds blew the frisky youngster 

Far away to other States; 
He had his share of sweethearts 

Wherever sweethearts grew, 
But ne'er forgot that lodestar 

Just in front of that old pew; 
Magnolia grove or Western Plain, 
His boyhood's light would rise again ! 

His life was full of labors 

And full of Preacher cares, 
And on and on went flying 

All the swiftness of the years; 
Once more back home returning, 

A lonely bachelor — 
And he was in the pulpit, 

And she was in the choir — 
The coals blazed up and, sparkling through, 
The lass who'd sat in that old pew ! 

Makemie won Naomi, 

His fair Virginia bride ; 
This other won his Ellen 

And he envied none beside; 
For through two hundred Summers, 

In the realms of wholesome lives 
Old Buckingham's rare daughters, 

Have made the best of wives; 
They gather sweets like honey-bees, 
They grow like laurels 'neath pine trees! 



Makemieland Memorials 8i 

And good old people lauded 

And children's hearts caressed; 
She doubled his influence 

In the Southland and the West; 
And everybody praised her 

And loved her more and more J 
For she, as in sweet girlhood, 

Kept on loving rich and poor; 
And thus she won and thus she grew, 
My fairy of the old-time pew ! 

Out yonder gently sleeping, 

Where no turmoil ever mars, 
She rests beside her Mother 

Underneath the Western stars ; 
And cheerful bloom? above her 

Are wreathing diadems, 
And blue-birds and the robins 

Are warbling requiems; 
Her life a song, her soul a psalm, 
The child of ancient Buckingham ! 

To-day the Ocean breezes 

Seem whispering out here; 
The balsams of the pine-trees 

Come pulsing through the air; 
Beside the grassy hillock 

I sit and dream my dreams, 
And catch anew the echoes 

Of the thrill of old-time hymns; 
And 'mid the dim haze, soothingly, 
That lassie still ahead of me ! 

The waiting and the waiting, 

The years now moving slow ; 
The yearning and the yearning 

And the forms of long ago ; 
The old familiar faces, 

The lone and broken home ; 



82 Makemieland Memorials 

The fadeless hearts up yonder 

Who are beckoning us to come; 
The home-like gates of Paradise, 
The congregations of the skies ! 

I bring my Easter lilies 

And lay them by her side; 
She loved them well while living, 

She was like them when she died! 
It is coming, surely coming, 

And 'twill not be very long, 
The glorious Resurrection 

And the Coronation song; 
The skies of blue and, smiling through, 
The lass in front of our old pew ! 



TO OUR JOHN. 



Written for the Fiftieth Birthday of Mr. John S. McMaster, 
Great-Grandson of Rev. Samuel McMaster, Madam Holden's 
Pastor and also of Rehoboth for thirty years — Rehoboth's longest 
Pastorate. Our John is a true friend of the Makemie Churches. 



Come, ye balmiest Southern breezes, 
Take and bear this message on — 

Wreaths of warm congratulations 
To old Worcester's favorite son — 

Greetings from his native scenes, 

His loved Land of Evergreens. 

Never was there son more loyal 
To the soil from which he sprung; 

Never heart of Eastern Shoreman 
Quite so true and ever young; 

Worthy his McMaster line, 

Son of Holly and the Pine. 



Makemieland Memorials 83 

So he came, our little Jonnie, 

To the classic Pocomoke, 
High ideals bred within him 

And the fibre of the oak; 
Thus the budding life begun, 
McMaster mixed with Stevenson. 

'Mid the Laurel and the Myrtle, 

Worshipping at Nature'?. Shrine, 
Growing 'mid the Holly berries, 

Breathing balsams of the Pine — 
So life's currents ebb and flow, 
Child of fifty years ago. 

And the sheen has never left him 

Of the Land that gave him birth ; 
E'en the quaint old turkey-buzzards 

Have no peers in all the earth ! 
Are they not, as high they rise, 
Jonnie's Birds of Paradise? 

Sure enough when Cupid struck him, 

And the deeper thrills awoke, 
Queen nor Countess could allure him 

From the lass of Pocomoke ; 
None but Janie, only she, 
Blooming down at Beverly. 

Dennis and McMaster mingling, 

High ambitions in their veins, 
Two young Princes, John and Alfred, 

Legatees of blood and brains — 
So he sits between his heirs, 
Patriarch of fifty years ! 

And old Worcester sends her greetings 

And old Pocomoke his love — 
That he'll live another fifty, 

Crowned with blessings from above, 
While the Noble still inspires, 
Worthy son of worthy sires ! 



84 Makemieland Memorials 

Now a word from old Rehoboth : — 
"Honored be the name McMaster; 

Richest benedictions on him, 
Scion of my cherished Pastor; 

Like my Samuel may he stand 

A Star of our Makemie land !" 



REHOBOTH TO HER KIDS. 

Rehoboth with her Bible name, 

The hazy past upon her, 
There seated by the riverside 

Enthroned in fadeless honor ; 
Departed hours and present hours 

Converging there serenely, 
As winsome as in girlhood's days, 

And still robust and queenly. 

"Call in my children," thus she spake, 

Her bosom fond and truthful. 
For old folks love their little ones, 

And thus keep sweet and youthful; 
"Call in my children ; bless their hearts, 

White seagulls by the waters; 
I saw you in your pantalets, 

My blessed little daughters! 

"The Lady Mary Somerset, 

Her praises widely spoken 
Entailed her name on this glad clime, 

Your birthplace, fair Monokin ; 
Bright land of noble womanhood, 

Of blossoms, birds and fairies, 
Where our Makemie planted well 

Our seven Sanctuaries. 



Makemieland Memorials S5 

"The Princess Anne, ere long a Queen, 

Bestowed her name upon thee ; 
John Calvin when Makemie came, 

Entranced thy heart and won thee; 
And never through succeeding years 

Shall Calvin's grip be broken, 
While men like Watson stand for Christ 

In orthodox Monokin. 

"Pitts Creek, esconsed by Beaver Dam, 

'Mid memories rich and golden, 
One of Makemie's favorites 

And pride of Madam Holden; 
Well served through Revolution times 

By sturdy Sam McMaster, 
And served by yet another Mac, 

McCullough, faithful Pastor. 

"This not the ground for briars and thorns, 

No place for croaks and croakers ; 
There's Grace enough for country Church 

And for the Pocomokers; 
May God the old-time ardor give 

And constantly renew it ; 
If any saint can keep 'em straight, 

Aunt Betsy Jones can do it! 

"Snow Hill, I send my girl a kiss 

Upon the sparkling river; 
The God of ancient Adam Spence 

Still be thy God forever! 
Where Samuel Davis preached the Word 

And showed the open Heaven, 
And Dr. North dispenses still 

The same old Gospel leaven. 

"You have illustrious pedigree, 

My genial little Madam; 
No use to try to stretch it out 

To ages back of Adam; 



86 Makemieland Memorials 

'Twill get the charming history- 
All puckered in a pother, 

If Daughterhood upsets the dates 
And plays her Mother's Mother! 

"Wicomico, name borne of old 
By bright-eyed Indian lassies, 

Where still the water-lilies grow 
Among the river grasses; 

Where erst McNish, Makemie's boy, 
His Gospel wand was swaying, 

Where Beale flings out his eloquence 
And Riegart keeps on praying. 

. "Survivor of the saints of old 

And heir of Rockawalkin, 
You too should be a saint, my dear, 

And typical Blue Stockin' ; 
Our only Church in that wide field, 

You ought, by God's good bounty, 
To win and Presbyterianize 

That whole delightful county! 

"Now Buckingham, my Buckingham, 

Come nestle to my bosom; 
A virgin on a virgin coast, 

My lonely seaside blossom; 
A native of the ancient soil 

By William Stevens given; 
There seated by the upper road 

To show the road to Heaven ! 

"Where Bancroft wings his rhetoric 

And fulminates his gestures, 
And pictures lustrous crowns of gold 

And paints the Heavenly vestures ; 
And lauds the Seer of Holden's Creek 

And shows new splendors coming; 
Dear Buckingham, with Temple fair, 

The blossom still in blooming !" 



Makemieland Memorials 87 

Thus old Rehoboth still adorns 

Hereditary stories; 
The humor of her youthful days 

Still mingling with her glories; 
Fresh benedictions on her girls 

Perennial love attesting; 
Her heart still down at Holden's Creek 

Where her old Hero's resting! 



EASTERN SHORE FERNERIES. 

The Birdies in the tree-tops, 

The Froggies in the stream, 
Are singing to their sweethearts 

Of Love's immortal dream; 
And Love was in the meadows, 

And Love was in the air, 
When Nell and I went hunting 
For the dainty Maiden Hair; 
Hunting ferns, hunting ferns, 
And Love was everywhere, 
When Nell and I went hunting, 
For the dainty Maiden Hair. 

The robin sang his nuptials 

Among the myrtle boughs ; 
The thrush was trilling ditties 
Beside his chirping spouse; 
The earth was gay with weddings 

And life was void of care, 
When Nell and I went hunting 
For the dainty Maiden Hair; 
Hunting ferns, hunting ferns, 
And Love was everywhere, 
When Nell and I went hunting, 
For the dainty Maiden Hair. 

Then one of Nelly's tresses 
Blew soft across my cheek — 



88 Makemieland Memorials 

Ah 'twas a mystic message 

Two souls began to speak; 
For close we walked together 
And never a happier pair, 
When Nell and I went hunting 
For the dainty Maiden Hair; 
Hunting ferns, hunting ferns, 
And Love was everywhere, 
When Nell and I went hunting, 
For the dainty Maiden Hair. 

We heard a dove bewailing 

His little murdered mate; 

On Nelly's cheek a tear-drop 

Fell for the mourner's fate; 
Ah ! little were we dreaming 

That ere another year, 
Would rest beneath the graveyard 
My little Maiden's Hair; 
Hunting ferns nevermore, 

And sadness everywhere — 
Torn heartstrings dimly groping, 
For the darling Maiden's Hair! 



OLD REHOBOTH'S HOME-SOXG 



Air— Maryland, My Maryland. 

Rehoboth, we thy children claim, 

Mother Church and Motherland, 
Our birthright by thine altar-flame, 
Mother Church and Motherland; 
Rehoboth, fair and fadeless name, 
Rehoboth, with thine ancient fame, 
Of old and evermore the same, 
Mother Church and Motherland. 



Makemieland Memorials 89 

Through summer's heat and winter's cold, 

Mother Church and Motherland, 
The Way of Life has long been told. 

Mother Church and Motherland: 
Rehoboth, where thy saints of old 
First saw the azure flag unrolled. 
We still are nestling to thy fold. 

Mother Church and Motherland. 

Here our Makemie stood and spoke, 

Mother Church and Motherland, 
And first the Western wilds awoke. 

Mother Church and Motherland, 
And far and wide the echoes broke 
Through wilderness of pine and oak 
And up and down the Pocomoke. 

Mother Church and Motherland. 

Lone exiles from beyond the seas. 

Mother Church and Motherland. 
Sung David's Psalms beneath these trees. 

Mother Church and Motherland : 
Assembled here on bended knees. 
Those Presbyterian refugees 
Have left us precious legacies, 

Mother Church and Motherland. 

Rehoboth. we thy children stand. 

Mother Church and Motherland. 
With plighted hearts and hand in hand. 

Mother Church and Motherland: 
We gather here a loyal band 
To love and labor to the end 
For God and our Makemieland. 

Mother Church and Motherland. 

Away from these historic scenes. 

Mother Church and Motherland. 
Xo flight of years our bosom weans. 

Mother Church and Motherland : 



90 Makemieland Memorials 

Where faithful Zion yet convenes, 
Shall there not still be kings and queens 
In God's own Land of Evergreens, 
Mother Church and Motherland? 

To Pioneers who here have met, 

Mother Church and Motherland, 
We bare our brow and own our debt, 

Mother Church and Motherland; 
And nevermore will we forget 
The ancient Shrines abiding yet 
And bonnie braes of Somerset, 
Mother Church and Motherland. 



METHODISM BOOMING IN POCOMOKE. 



Congratulations to Dr. W. L. S. Murray. 

Here I am, Sir; just awoke; 
New-arrived on Pocomoke; 
Dashing Apostolic lad, 
Big Exhorter like my Dad; 
Theologian of the age, 
Bishop of the Parsonage; 
Landing in a sort of flurry — 
Duplicated Dr. Murray ! 

Well, in time I looked around, 
Diagnozed my camping-ground; 
Saw a fine old chap come in, 
Every feature all a-grin; 
Grand old fellow— beautiful — 
Two feet taller by the rule; 
And I wish that you could see him 
Clap his hands and sing Te Deum ! 



Makemieland Memorials qi 

Had you seen him splurge about, 

Cry Amen, Amen, and shout, 

Any stupid could have guessed 

Daddy was a Methodist; 

Even Wesley missed such joy — 

Wesley never had a boy, 

Never owned a little lambie, 

With a Mammie like my Mammie ! 

Then my Dad you ought to see 
Making sermons full of me ! 
This the Text he'll ventilate, 
Genesis First and Twenty-Eight; 
Urging people ere they die, 
To fulfill their destiny, 
Duly paired and duly mated, 
Little boys predestinated ! 

Jolly as a kid can be, 

I'm his miniature D.D., 

And I mean as days pass on, 

Grow into a worthy son ; 

Smooth their pathway, soothe their cares, 

Brighten all their future years; 

Keep their bosoms from all worry, 

Be a Junior Dr. Murray ! 

Methodism is all right, 
Ties a fellow up right tight ; 
But there's one thing certain-sure, 
One thing that I won't endure ; 
This I'll do when I'm a man, 
Turn a Presbyterian, 
If Dad's stomach plays the dickens, 
And he eats up all the chickens ! 



92 Makemieland Memorials 



A TRIBUTE 



To Daniel C. Hudson. 

"Blessed are they which are called unto the Mar- 
riage Supper of the Lamb." 

'Twas Sabbath afternoon, 'neath Texan skies, 

The tidings came. Exiles from the Eastern Shore, 

We'd sat and filled the hours with Maryland, 

And talked of Berlin friends and Berlin loves. 

That morn about the Table of our Lord 

We'd gathered 'mid its sweetest memories 

And thought of this memorial earthly Feast 

As close of kin to that spread Feast above, 

The Guests on earth and Guests on High the same, 

Then bursts the startling news that Dan was gone ! 

The hand that held the letter 

Was shaken for awhile ; 
The heart was fluttering backward 

O'er many a weary mile; 
A new mound in the graveyard, 

The mourners and the tears — 
My Dan of early childhood, 

My Dan of all the years ! 

Yes, he the nearest friend I ever had, 

Twin brothers from the first and all the way — 

Parental friendships, pure, inherited; 

His home forever mine and my home his ; 

Same studies in the good old Sunday School, 

Same studies in the old Academy; 

Two opposites converging and converged, 

Playmates, schoolmates, classmates, wedded mates — 

And now he's gone on up and joined the Feast 

Above — the Marriage Supper of the Lamb ! 



Makemieland Memorials 93 

There never was a better 

Upon the old school-grounds; 
I've never met a nobler 

In all my pilgrim rounds ; 
And when my rasher nature 

Would some sad bent reveal, 
My Dan was then my conscience, 

And Dan my balance-wheel. 

Trappe Creek, the shimmerings of thy waves return 

And ripple through the mazes of the past. 

I hear the seabirds as they come and go, 

Kingfisher's cry and ospreys on their perch, 

The bass of Ocean over to the East; 

And there we sat in revery, Dan and I, 

Beneath the shade of my wild-cherry tree, 

And talked of books and sweethearts and the birds 

And plans for life and lilies there afloat — 

Ourselves afloat upon the outbound tides. 

And all was bright and dreamy, 

And nature was at rest, 
And boys' imaginations 

Careering at their best ; 
And life was full of promise, 

And treasures on ahead, 
And we the two knights-errant 

Went forth by fairies led. 

And Dan and I together beau'd the girls, 
In dear old courting days, romantic days, 
When in Love's Paradise between the Bays 
Fair faces sweeter blushed, tones richer thrilled, 
Than ever in the broad, wide world beside. 
We knew each other's secrets, shared the dreams, 
And learned to scribble verses by the foot. 
And then the rare day came, the day of days, 
When he was by my side and helped me win 
The model Preacher's Wife of all the world! 



94 Makemieland Memorials 

That blessed Tuesday morning, 

We knew full well that he 
Would make a better husband 

Than poor old I could be; 
That somewhere in the future 

His heart would reach its bloom, 
And then the happy groomsman 

Turn to a happy groom ! 

My bridal day found Dan a Ruling Elder 
And me a Teaching Elder. I knew the hour, 
Our souls a-touch, when he had come to Christ. 
The day we joined the Church we spent alone 
In prayer among the graves of Buckingham. 
Together at Communion, heart to heart, 
We sat and took the hallowed bread and wine, 
Dispensed and blessed by good Alanson Haines, 
Saintliest of men. Now they have shaken hands 
Around the Marriage Supper of the Lamb ! 

Ah! surely it was glorious 

When those two holy men, 
Up there amid the splendors, 

Had met in love again ; 
Perhaps 'twas our old Pastor 

Who welcomed this new Guest 
And led his old friend Daniel 

To that Eternal Feast! 

I never thought of him as going first. 

I fail to think it yet. I can't recall 

The town, the Church, the home, and he not there! 

The streets which hear his well-known steps no more, 

Seem void and dumb. For me the blank world narrows. 

But it is well! Why should promotion lag? 

Approach the Throne, O Daniel well-beloved, 

And take thy crown ! The years would soon have bent 

Thy form, and wintry storms grown chill and harsh. 

The Springtime's come — the Bridal of the Lamb! 



Makemieland Memorials 95 

You've left a spotless character 

To gladden and abide; 
We catch the sheen of halos 

Upon the other side; 
The name of Daniel Hudson 

Not soon will dim and die, 
And we will love each other still, 

My good old Dan and I ! 



THE LAST MOSQUITO. 

Upon the utmost verge of time, 

The last mosquito, 
I sit and hum my farewell rhyme, 

The last mosquito; 
I muse upon our early prime 
Within our sweet old favorite clime, 
And mourn our fate in buzz sublime, 

The last mosquito. 

One of your poets sang the strain, 

Like this mosquito, 
Of one disconsolate last man, 

Like this mosquito ; 
He made it sad as poets can, 
Deserted of his whole dead clan, 
As lonely as a pelican, 

Or this mosquito. 

And so I sing bur requiem too, 

The last mosquito, 
Our lustrous past in full review, 

The last mosquito ; 
In every bog, old world or new, 
A cosmopolitan I flew 
As widely as the Wandering Jew, 

The last mosquito. 



g6 Makemieland Memorials 

My pedigree is old and dim. 

This last mosquito, 
Like other family trees so prim, 

This last mosquito; 
Way back v/hen Adam took that whim 
And listened to the Serpent grim, 
And bit that apple, I bit him, 

This same mosquito. 

When Noah took that sparkling booze, 

This same mosquito 
Just nipped him on his ruddy nose, 

This same mosquito ; 
When Abram fibbed like silly goose, 
I came a-singing from the ooze, 
And bit him as I bite the Jews, 

This same mosquito. 

I took my taste of Eleazar, 

This old mosquito, 
I sampled Nebuchadenezzer, 

This old mosquito; 
I stuck my probe in old Bellshazzer, 
And punctured many an old star-gazer, 
And smacked my lips on Czar and Kaizer, 

This old mosquito. 

Columbus sailed the wild seas o'er, 

But this mosquito 
Had far outstripped him long before, 

This same mosquito ; 
Alert new regions to explore, 
I'd heard of marsh and fen and moor 
All glorious on the Eastern Shore, 

This same mosquito. 

And so to this fair clime he sails, 

This spry mosquito, 
Winged by the trans-atlantic gales, 

This same mosquito; 



Makemieland Memorials 97 

Among the rills and ferny dales, 
Along the moist and grassy vales, 
A Paradise for wiggle-tales 
And this mosquito. 

When your Makemie came at last, 

This same mosquito 
Was ready for a full repast, 

This same mosquito ; 
As he the streams and rivers traced 
And all the swamps and marshes faced, 
No blood could rival it in taste 

For this mosquito. 

His light complexion, rich. as roses, 

To old mosquito 
A mighty dainty feast discloses 

For this mosquito ; 
And when the Preacher talked of Moses 
And delt his Calvinistic doses, 
I'd take a whack at his proboscis, 

This same mosquito. 

With Vandal from the other States, 

This sly mosquito 
Has his own fun in later dates, 

This cute mosquito; 
If rather much he arrogates, 
Or ancient graves he desecrates, 
I pounce on him with all my mates, 

Shrewd old mosquito. 

Alas, mosquito days are done, 

Poor old mosquito ; 
Our fate is sealed ; our tribes are gone, 

Poor old mosquito ; 
A Jersey City Paragon., 
Discounting even Edison, 
Our live, invincible John 



9§ Makemieland Memorials 

Invents some magic benison, 
Insecticide phenomenon, 
To put all drawbacks on the run, 
Mosquito empires overthrown, 
And make this Shore an Eden zone- 
So here I am the only one, 
The last mosquito ! 



THE LADY MARY. 

The Lady Mary Somerset, 

Lord Baltimore's sweet sister, 
Sat in her home across the Bay, 

Where seaside breezes kissed her; 
The fireflies in the twilight haze 

Were lighting up their torches ; 
The orioles were in the pines. 

The frog-choirs in the marshes. 

And Maryland was very young, 

A lassie in short dresses, 
And far extended everywhere 

The pathless wildernesses ; 
Throughout St. Mary's little town, 

Her loveliness diffusing, 
Our Lady Mary Somerset 

Was silently musing. 

Her Ladyship was very fair 

And good and kindly-hearted, 
And to the needy immigrants 

Her bounties were imparted; - 
The Colonists all loved her well 

And joined to do her honor; 
And now her thoughts ran pleasantly, 

The evening-spell upon her. 



Ma kEmieland Memorials 

"They tell me," mused her Ladyship, 

"That over to the leeward, 
A County rare they've named for me 

Between the Bay and Seaboard; 
A Land of streams and brooks, and 
where 
The Indian lingo's spoken — 
As Annamessex. Pocomoke, 
Wicomico, Monokin. 

"I hear of many kings and queens 
Their names a forest chorus — 
Weegnonah, Matchacoopah too 
And Weocomoconus ; 

And Currimuccas, Wynicaco, 
Wasposson and Tanguaton, 

Morumsco James, Nuswuddux Dick, 
Skifortum and Ringtaughton. 

"But whiter queens and whiter kings 

Are born among the bushes, 
Fine royal lads on Pocomoke 

And girls with royal blushes; 
For Pocomoke among her groves 

Has nobler aims and uses 
For other boys and other maids 

Than copper-hued pappooses. 

"Your Lady Mary Somerset, 

Whose name your County fancies. 
Sees planted by the riverside 

Fair homes and choice romances ; 
Aspiring hearts and worthy deeds 

Adorning history's pages. 
To gild the name of Somerset 

And shine on down the ages. 

"Lo, far along the coming years 

The white-men's tootsy-wootsies — 



99 



ioo Makemieland Memorials 

The Beauchamps, Tulls and Whit- 
tingtons, 
The Truitts, Grays and Knottses; 
The Matthews kids and Wilkinses, 

And Powells by the dozens, 
The Tilghmans, Warrens, Paynes and 
Longs 
And all the Dryden Cousins. 

"Successors to the Indian Chiefs, 

Skifortum and Ringtaughton, 
Behold the tripple Eldership, 

Your Davis, Polk and Braughton ; 
And showing younger men the art 

Of winning wives resplendent, 
A pillar in the Church and School, 

The burly Superintendent. 

"And there the sacred Temple stands 

Beside the sparkling River 
To gladden all those rural homes 

And light the land forever; 
And old Rehoboth long shall live 

An honor to her Founder, 
And filial hearts and filial hopes 

Forevermore surround her !" 



THE EXILE'S SONG. 

Old Eastern Shore, dear Eastern Shore, 

An exiled son of thine 
Sends loyal greetings from afar 
And loves to call thee mine ; 
Land of the laurels and the pine, 
Land of the spicy fox-grape vine, 
Land where the water-lilies twine, 
'Mid maiden's heart as pure ! 

Fair Eastern Shore, rare Eastern Shore, 
My fatherland, my Maryland, 
My dreamland and my fairyland, 
Delightsome Eastern Shore! 



Makemieland Memorials ioi 

! 
Old Eastern Shore, dear Eastern Shore, 

The heart is sometimes sad, 
And oft leans back to days of yore — 

A little barefoot lad; 
Land of the oyster-banks and shad, 
Land of the terrapin and crab, 
Land where the welcomes make all glad— 
With larders brimming o'er; 

Fair Eastern Shore, rare Eastern Shore, 
My fatherland, my Maryland, 
My dreamland and my fairyland, 
Delightsome Eastern Shore ! 

Old Eastern Shore, dear Eastern Shore, 

Thy glories I will speak — 
The Ocean's sweetheart evermore 

The bride of Chesapeake ; 
The beaches and the smiling creek, 
The curlew's song, the osprey's shriek, 
I listen — teardrops course my cheek, 
And recollections soar ; 

Fair Eastern Shore, rare Eastern Shore, 
My fatherland, my Maryland, 
My dreamland and my fairyland, 
Delightsome Eastern Shore! 

Old Eastern Shore, dear Eastern Shore, 

Loved by no feeble race ; 
Ancestral blood distilling pure 

From far Colonial days ; 
Old Churches where our kinsmen praise, 
Old graveyards where tradition strays, 
Old homes where in life's twilight haze 
Skies smile with open door; 

Fair Eastern Shore, rare Eastern Shore, 
My fatherland, my Maryland, 
My dreamland and my fairyland, 
Delightsome Eastern Shore ! 



102 MakemieLand MemortAls 

WILLIAM STEVENS 

Beside dark-bosomed Pocomoke, the stream 

Ploughed by the venturous keel of Captain Smith, 

Virginia's knightliest knight, at early dawn 

Of young America and the century, 

Here I, the trusted friend of Baltimore, 

And all the people, have found full room to live 

And breathe and die and here I shall be buried; 

I, William Stevens, Judge, Deputy Lieutenant, 

And all those things — but, Titles all aside, 

I like plain William Stevens far the best ! 

In this God-given country 

Must merit reign alone; 
And manhood built on manhood 

Shall win and hold its own; 
Where God's Decree is planting 

A new and nobler race, 
The name of William Stevens 

Shall carve itself a place. 

In Albion born, the Shire of Buckingham 

Was all too cramped; aristocratic blood 

And all that stuff on top and worth suppressed. 

My youngest brother Richard, splendid boy. 

And I his favorite — well, the old world galled ; 

Its yokes and trammels did not suit us boys; 

The Church-and-State intolerance and hate, 

The privileged Class which held its betters down 

And so we chafed and heard of this fair clime, 

Land broad enough for men and souls to grow ! 

To the voices of the pine-trees, 

We youngsters turned our gaze ; 
To the calls of light and freedom 

And the skies between the Bays ; 
All hail, my little River, 

Future haunts for noble men, 
And the warbles of the robin 

And the carols of the wren 



Makemieland Memorials 103 

There's inspiration in these Western skies, 

There's stimulus in breadth and width and grandeur. 

In Sixteen Sixty Five along this stream 

I patented my grounds and called the name 

Rehoboth. Room and space for good and true. 

Room and space for all that are oppressed; 

For men who want a chance to rise and climb ; 

For all clean souls who'd have the conscience free. 

So they but love their God and fellow men. 

And guard the rights of all, this home is theirs ! 

Welcome, old Church of England 

And plaintive Liturgy; 
Welcome, our Robert Maddux 

And old-time minstrelsy; 
Welcome, ye quaint old Quakers 

And mystical George Fox ; 
Welcome, O brave Makemie, 

And all his orthadox ! 

I saw my Presbyterian neighbors flung 
Across the seas by persecutors' hand — 
Imprisoned, impoverished, thumbscrew, fagot. 
Or sold as chattels; men of solid worth 
Here held as servants by far baser breeds, 
I saw these scattered sheep unsheperded, 
Their starving souls outreaching for the Word. 
I seized my pen and wrote their earnest plea 
To those at home, the stern Scotch-Irish seers 
Beyond the waves, there in the Emerald Isle. 

The daylight came in splendor, 

The happy morning broke ; 
Makemie's barque came gliding 

On up the Pocomoke ; 
The tidings flew like lightning. 

Around and all about. 
And far and wide went ringing 

That Presbyterian shout ! 



104 Makemieland Memorials 

> 

Young Francis was all right. I like the youth. 

His blue eyes, full, sincere; his views four-square; 

A man of force, a fitting pioneer — 

The kind to lay foundations and build up. 

Just here he stood and spoke. His broad Scotch tones, 

As plaintive as a song, went nestling deep 

To many tearful hearts, all full of home. 

For them he linked the new world with the old 

And linked this world with Heaven. Our Eastern Shore 

Became for all a suburb of the skies! 

The angels never witnessed, 

A gladder, happier flock; 
We laughed to hear him calling 

Our river Poccamok! 
No matter what he called it, 

They were as men that dream, 
His voice like Heavenly music 

To those along the stream ! 

My life will not be long. But two brief years 
After this land was mine, here in this house, 
My brother Richard died and yonder lies 
Beneath the sod where I shall join him soon. 
My high ambition for this beauteous Shore 
Has been to see it fill with goodly stock, 
Communities to beautify the land; 
And Churches of the Living God to shine 
Like galaxies from Bay to Bay. My work 
Will soon be done and Stevens soon must go ! 

Four little Eastern Shoremen 

Will linger and remain, 
My John, my namesake William, 

My James and little Anne. 
God bless the coming thousands 

The children yet to be — 
The hope of this grand country, 

Her proud nobility ! 



?•■ 



Makemieland Memorials 105 

No, not long ! My life has been a busy life, 

But now the taper flickers. Far down the years 

1 see a lonely tomb. The many other graves, 

My kith and kin, demolished and unknown. 

I see one heavy slab still in its place; 

And now and then a pilgrim comes and stands 

And spells it out — the name of William Stevens. 

Two hundred years — contemporaries gone — 

And graveyards crumbled. Well, no matter then, 

If noble bosoms still survive and nobe deeds ! 

Where we have pitched the standards 

And planted deep and well, 
May offspring keep the temple 

And guard the citadel; 
May the spirit of the fathers, 

The staunch old pioneers, 
Descend to children's children 

And gird succeeding years ! 

Another vision rises. No second-sight 
Like canny Scotch, but standing near the marge, 
The haze appears to lift. What throngs are those 
I see far on ahead on Holden's Creek — 
Outnumbering all our population now ! 
Out of the mist of years a granite shaft, 
Sublime, benign, stands forth and plaudits ring ! 
A Continental Church awakes, remembers, 
Proclaims her Founder ! The years have won ! 
I read Makemie, large upon the Cairn! 

Where Francis planned his mission, 

Where Francis won his bride, 
Where Papa kissed his daughters 

And lived and loved and died ; 
Where God had owned His Prophet 

And placed His Sentinel, 
The people light the Temple, 

And guard the Citadel ! 



to6 Makemieland Memorials 



OLD GEORGE. 

The old-time darky's fading out, 

The good old servant's had his day, 
The friendliness aod trustfulness 

Of white and black have passed away ; 
The old-time slavery had its faults, 

Its darker shadows now and then, 
But Slavery had its own rare gems 

The world can never see again ! 

My old Black Mammy, broad and fat. 

And fond and true, Mahala Short — 
There never was a homelier face, 

There never was a warmer heart ; 
And yonder on my native banks, 

Beside old Trappe Creek's pensive marge 
I stand to-day by his low grave 

And drop a tear for good Old George ! 

Old George — Ah ! yes I see him still ; 

His sturdy tread across the fields, 
The flashing scythe is in his hand. 

The flail his virile muscle wields ; 
His loyalty to old Mars Bob, 

Throughout the day from morning dawn, 
His Master's interests all his aim, 

You would have thought the Farm his own. 

I see him of his own accord 

Beside the hominy mortar stand. 
Till late at night unwearied still 

Pounding the grain with tireless hand; 
And thus we heard the pestle throb— 

Those iron sinews hard and large, 
Because we children loved the dish — 

The ever-faithful good Old George! 



Makemieland Memorials T07 

As honest as the day was long. 

There was no need of harsh control ; 
There never was a sturdier stroke. 

There never was a whiter soul ; 
And he and old Mars Bob were friends 

And slavery had its gentle reign. 
Its friendliness of race for 'race 

The world can never see again ! 

Us boys — he used to love us well, 

A brother in that old black skin, 
And when he went we missed him sore 

As if he had been close of kin ; 
Now three old men, white-haired and worn. 

Are thinking of him near the verge, 
And hail him still across the tide — 

Our old companion, dear Old George ! 



VOICE OF THE PINES. 



To Miss S. P. B., of Drummondtown. 

I heard an Old Pine — but let me premise 
That the man's scarcely human, he's surely not wise. 
Who says, when returned from .a fresh woodland walk, 
That a Pine cannot feel, that a Pine cannot talk. 

I heard an Old Pine — but let me again 
Declare that nowhere in the annals of men 
Was there ever a Bard or a Poet so fine, 
Or a Singer so sweet as a grand Old Pine ! 

So I heard an Old Pine, a noble old Tree, 
With a pure pedigree and an F. F. V.. 
In one of his genial contemplation moods. 
Thus telling his dreams to the listening woods :— 



108 Makemieland Memorials 

"There are people with souls and people without," 
And he shook his green locks with a smile and a doubt, 

"There are people with hearts and a skyward brow, 
And others as stupid as an old dead bough ! 

"There are those that can hear in the Pine Tree's moan 
The requiem chants of the loved who are gone 
The legends and tales of the seasons far back, 
The glories ancestral of fair Accomack! 

"They shrink from the Vandals who murder the Pines, 
Who doom to oblivion the Evergreen Shrines, 
The Temples of Nature your Fathers have trod, 
The haunts of the Fairies and the footsteps of God ! 

"I know a true heart that inhabits these scenes, 
A Daughter and Queen of the proud Evergreens, 
Who fancies the Poems the Pine Trees bring. 
Who fondles the Songs which the Pine Woods sing ! 

"The Beauty that blossoms, adorning her way, 
She would cherish and guard to the far after day, 
And hand then still onward to seasons to be, 
The smile and the voice of the Old Pine Tree ! 

"And ever and ever The Park shall remain 
The child of her heart and the pet of her brain, 
And all the bright years shall the lustre renew — 
The fair name of Bayly an Evergreen too !" 



Makemieland Memorials 109 

HICKORY NUTTIN' DAYS. 

Hickory nuttin'— I'll tell you somethin' 

Of those rare old Autumn days; 
Sumac red and blushes redder, 
Bound to win my Nell and wed her 
'Neath the Indian Summer haze. 
Hickory nuttin', hickory nuttin', 

Listen and I'll tell you somethin', 
Of the witchery of the hickory — 
Of the hickory nuttin' days. 

Nell grew sweeter— none could beat her 

In those rare old Autumn days; 
Golden rod in golden lustres, 
Wild grapes in their spicy clusters, 
'Neath the Indian Summer haze ! 
Hickory nuttin', hickory nuttin', 

Listen and I'll tell you somethin', 
Of the witchery of the hickory— 
Of the hickory nuttin' days. 

Nell was airy as a fairy 

In those rare old Autumn days; 
Cheeks as red as holly-berry, 
Lips as luscious as a cherry 

'Neath the Indian Summer haze. 
Hickory nuttin', hickory nuttin', 

Listen and I'll tell you somethin', 
Of the witchery of the hickory — 
Of the hickory nuttin' days. 

Hickory nuttin' — not for nothin', 

In those rare old Autumn days ; 
Golden rod become more golden, 
Angel in my arms enfoldin', 

'Neath the Indian Summer haze. 
Hickory nuttin', hickory nuttin', 

Listening while I told her somethin' — 
Of the witchery of the hickory — 
Of the hickory nuttin' days ! 



no Makemieland Memorials 

OLD CAROLINE. 

It were a pity and a loss 

To you and life and me 
And many a scene to memory dear 

And to sweet poesy. 
If, while the world still has its flings 

At Slavery anA its sins. 
We should forget the humble dead, 

The jewels in black skins. 

The faithful serfs as true as steel 

The slaves of Auld Lang Syne, 
The faithful hearts like hers I sing 

Our fine Old Caroline; 
No elegance in face or form, 

No lofty air or look, 
But with those kitchen logs aglow, 

My goodness, she could cook ! 

She came to us a timid thing. 

And shrinking and alone, 
But old Miss Andy won her heart 

Before the day was done ; 
Old Miss— the little Negro felt 

The winsome look she wore — 
The tenderest heart that ever beat 

Upon the Eastern Shore ! 

The wondrous skill of kind old Miss 

The watchful maid acquires — 
Beside the wide old chimney-place 

And big old-fashioned fires; 
Your stoves and granges can't compete. 

Nor all your boasted books, 
With those great fires of long ago 

And those old Negro cooks ! 

I smell the frying chickens yet, 
The pullets of Lang Syne, 

All browning there beneath the smiles 
Of brown Old Caroline; 



Makemieland Memorials hi 

And then the herrings in the pan, 

And croakers from the hook, 
All crisp and rich and golden-hued — 

I tell you she could cook ! 

Oh Yellow Pone, rare Yellow Pone, 

So luscious, sweet and light, 
Enveloped deftly in oak leaves 

And mellowing all night ; 
No cooking-school or foreign chef 

Has ever undertook 
To rival old Virginia Pone 

When Caroline was cook ! 

What is this odor, as refined 

As famed Attar of Rose, 
These sweets of Araby the Blest 

That steel upon my nose ! 
Ah 'tis the possum for us boys, 

Those happy days in luck, 
For in those fair old Eden days 

I tell you she could cook ! 

We had our sweethearts — Oh of course — 

And Bob and Bill combine 
To hunt them brides to bake and fry 

Like good Old Caroline; 
And Billy found her, but poor Bob 

No equal ever struck, 
And does not wed because none match 

Old Caroline as cook ! 

And nursed on Calvinistic milk 

And Presbyterian grub. 
Old Lit forevermore in love — 

Too often — there's the rub : 
But finally he settled down, 

No more a tramp or crook. 
And found a model, heavenly brand. 

A most angelic cook ! 



H2 Makemieland Memorials 

Ah me, Old Caroline is gone 

And vistas of delights. 
And youngsters ardor for knick-knacks 

And boyhood's appetites ; 
And chivalry and poesy, 

By many a brae and brook, 
For in those far old Slavery days 

I tell you tiicy could cook! 



SONG OF THE REHOBOTH VOLUNTEERS. 



Air — Auld Lang Syne. 



This Young People's Society is the first in the Church's His- 
tory of 227 years. 

We join our hands and link our hearts 

And all that life endears, 
For God and Church and Native Land — 
Rehoboth Volunteers ; 

Rehoboth Volunteers — all right ; 
1 We hail the Pioneers ; 

A noble aim, a worthy name — 
Rehoboth Volunteers. 

Where our Forefathers sung their Psalms 

And raised their fervent prayers, 
We too will pray as in their day, 

Rehoboth Volunteers; 

Rehoboth Volunteers — all right, etc. 

Where Stevens grew and Jenkins too 

In far Colonial years, 
We'll be Makemie's boys and girls, 

Rehoboth Volunteers ; 

Rehoboth Volunteers — all right, etc. 



Makemieland Memorials 113 

God's workers in the days to come, 

A grit that perseveres, 
A zealous band, a ready hand, 

Rehoboth Volunteers; 

Rehoboth Volunteers — all right, etc. 

For Christ and Church we give our hearts, 

A love that lifts and cheers, 
Successors to the honored dead — 

Rehoboth Volunteers; 

Rehoboth Volunteers — all right, etc. 



ANNE OF BEVERLY. 

Among the genial memories 

Now melting into dreams, 
That glimmer in pine forest 

And by the pensive streams, 
Where pictures of our loved ones 

Emerge by ancient graves, 
There too, the sable faces, 

The old true-hearted slaves. 

The gleams of days departed 

Still float upon the air; 
The legends of fair Beverly 

Still linger here and there ; 
The Lady Mistress 'mid her flowers 

We seem to see again. 
And by her side unfalteringly 

The form of good old Anne. 

Yes, slavery days have vanished, 

But in their faded track 
Was many a thing of beauty 

That never can come back; 
The faithful old Black Mammy, 

The loyal heart and hand, 
Soul-links which colder regions 

Can never understand. 



1 14 Makemieland Memorials 

There in the ancient Mansion 

The child of Ham was born, 
And played among the blossoms 

And 'mid the silking corn; 
So grew the colored maiden 

Along the riverside, 
And Mistress was her sunshine, 

Her angel and her pride. 

And there were Feudal pleasures, 

And many a Feudal tie, 
To soften that close guardianship — 

The world called slavery ; 
And Anne loved dear Ole Mississ 

Far more than colored kin, 
For there was hidden poesy 

'Neath many an old black skin. 

No rending of the war times, 

No armies in array. 
No loud emancipation • 

Could lure her heart away; 
The years were verging onward, 

The seasons went and came ; 
In youth, old age, and ever, 

Old Anne was just the same. 

And Jonathan and David 

No richer ties displayed — 
The beautiful white woman 

The homely colored maid ; 
No social, sham equality, 

No harsh and frigid thrall, 
Twin lives as God had made them— 

And it was beautiful ! 

Thus growing old together, 
Till death at length was there ; 

The lone serf broken-hearted 
And weeping by the bier; 



Makemieland Memorials 115 

And there was desolation, 

And there was woe within — 
For there was holy chivalry 

'Neath many an old black skin. 

The frost-king touched Anne's teardrops 

To crystals pure and round; 
They bore them with the casket 

To consecrated ground; 
And never Queen or Princess 

Was decked in rarer gems, 
For slavery with its foibles 

Had its own diadems ! 

I'd like to wear such jewels 

When pilgrim days are done. 
The love of'meek and lowly 

Up to the great White Throne ; 
Our wanderings here all over, 

The journey safely through, 
And every serf enfranchised, 

And we enfranchised, too ! 

God bless the old-time darkies, 

Built on the old-time mould, 
The sturdy, humble bosoms 

The hearts as true as gold ; 
They loved the hand that guided, 

The patriarchal tie, 
And never was there faithfuller 

Than Anne of Beverly ! 



n6 Makemieland Memorials 



CLERICAL ACROBATS. 



Written by the Muse Bedridden and Sore. 

Ho, all ye frisky, spry Night Riders 

In old Kentuck and Tennessee, 
Or by the Pokymoky River 

In this preposterous century, 
Cavorting round in darkness deep 
When decent people are asleep ! 

Not a hint or moment's warning, 

Not a second to consult, 
A shock, a crash, and Parson flying 

Like missile from a catapult ! 
And sure no mortal man could get 
More scientific summerset ! 

Oh William Stevens — Stevens William — 
Here crossing at your Stevens Ferry, 

Did you or Scotchmen from the heather, 
Or Irish lads from Londonderry, 

E'er perpetrate such antics here, 

Or flounder in such mud and mire? 

I wonder if our brave Makemie, 

His Pony Button in full dash, 
E'er ventured out in such dank darkness 

And come to earth with such a crash ! 
While all these regions heard the noise 
Of Theologic avoirdupois ! 

'Twas hardly sure to be expected 
That Parson from so good a Town, 

Should start up such a Sunday Circus 
And undertake to play the clown ; 

Though there are Ministers we've met 

Who've flung completer summerset ! 



Makemieland Memorials 117 

For now and then we've seen some Preachers, 

Enraptured with Sam Jones' pranks, 
Forget, forsake the hallowed Gospel 

And turn themselves to mountebanks; 
Repentance changed to gay ha-has. 
To joke the sinner to the Cross! 

We see them play the Politician, 

And think it smart and orthodox 
To leave our Jesus in the shadows 

And try to run the ballot box; 
The Pulpiteers and Theologues 
Parading round as Demagogues! 

We see the frisky Higher Critics, 

Too sharp by far for Paul or Moses, 
Turn upside down our precious Bible 

By some occult metemsychosis ; 
Thus by Satanic currents met, 
Dull pulpits fling a summerset! 

Ho, all ye frisky, gay Night Riders, 

You'd better watch the gathering gloom, 
Avoid impending, dire collisions 

And keep your equilibrium ; 
Too reckless driving, wild and rash, 
May bring the everlasting smash ! 

Meanwhile this battered-up Old Stager 

Must intersperse the pains with fun, 
And oil the thinking apparatus, 

And keep blue-devils on the run ; 
For One forever True hath spoken— 
My servant's bones shall not be broken ! 

It well is worth some little suffering 

To find it out how well we're loved ; 
The kindly hearts, the genial bosoms, 

To sympathetic ardor moved ; 
The messes sent, the truthful eyes, 
The fragrant flowers of Paradise! 



n8 Makemieland Memorials 

-• 

WE CHILDREN. 

We children of Rehoboth 
Are met for song and praise. 

As once the children met and sung 
In the old Makemie days ; 

For here the early girls and boys 

First learned to love Makemie's voice. 

We children of Rehoboth, 

With our ballads and our rhymes. 

Will serve the God they used to serve 
In the old Makemie times ; 

As happy as they used to be 

When he came sailing o'er the sea. 

The children of Rehoboth. 

The Drydens and the Brays. 
The Jenkinses and Stevenses 

Here met to pray and praise — 
The Colbourns and the Whites and Browns 
The Beauchamps and the Whittingtons ! 

The children of Rehoboth 

In that far Colonial date 
Came bright and glad from everywhere 

And never were too late ; 
Cold or hot or rainy clime. 
Always here in nick of time. 

The children of Rehoboth 
Were well-behaved and nice ; 

When good Makemie rose to preach. 
They were as still as mice ; 

For when they heard our Founder speak, 

The babies never made a squeak. 

We children of Rehoboth 

Will mind Makemie too. 
And do with all our hearts and hands 

As he would have us do ; 
And in our lives and in our ways 
Be worthy of those good old days. 



Makemieland Memorials 119 



THE COOL SPRING. 

It was in the Long ago, 
Azure sky in brightest glow, 
Earth and all things here below 

Benisons bestowing; 
Where the water-lilies grow 
Where the whispering zephyrs blow, 
Where the Cool Spring, prattling low, 

Limpidly was flowing; 
Wholesome old chalybeate Spring, 
Welcoming and gladdening 
Never in our wandering — 

Prairie, moor or mountain — 
Could the world its equal bring, 
Traveler tell or poet sing 
Drafts so rich and heartening, 

As that sparkling fountain ! 

Clustered there were not a few 
Hallowed friendships staunch and true, 
Never waning, ever new, 
Hearts as fresh as morning dew 

On the vernal flowers ; 
Parents there and sisters too, 
Life arrayed in roseate hue, 
Ere they faded from our view 

In the fated hours ; 
Blest and fair, blest and fair. 
In midsummer's dreamy air. 
Young and old are mingling there, 

Gay and happy-hearted : 
Who — how few — are left that bear 
Still in mind names graven there 
Upon that oak ! So everywhere 
Names and faces disappear, 
Blest and fair and good and rare, 

In the days departed! 



120 Makemieland Memorials 

Thus of all that joyous throng, 
Glad as songster ever sung, 
Men and maids and old and young, 
Happy spirits, busy tongue, 

Jolly old Trappe Creekers ; 
None emerges from the fog, 
As fond memory I jog, 
Save one family and a frog 
Leaping blithely from the bog 

'Mid the gay picknickers ! 
Whitest cloths on grassy ground, 
Smiling guests arranged around, 
Appetites with ardor crowned, 

Palates all a-booming; 
Chicken pie and apple pie, 
Beaten biscuit mountain-high, 
Mellow country ham— Oh my — 
Indian pone's felicity, 
Old metheglin's ecstacy, 
All that art could bake or fry 

Paradise in blooming; 
Coffee fumes luxuriously 
Floating upward to the sky, 

All the grove perfuming. 
All are happy now as lords, 
Smacking lips and cheery words. 
Joyous as the singing birds, 

Eden edifying; 
Then Sir Froggie ambles up, 
Leaps elate into the group, 
Plate to plate he loups the loup, 
Makes poor Lit his special dupe, 
Landing in his coffee cup, 
And sends hot spray a-flying ! 

'Tis no laughing matter, Sir; 
Earthquakes make no wilder stir; 
Screams ring out upon the air ; 
Ladies scattering far and near, 
Hoops and bustles out of gear — 
Batrachian in clover! 



Makemieland Memorials 121 

Then and there his victim swore — 
Swore to drink frog-tea no more, 
And from that decisive hour 

He quit the drug forever ! 
And those lassies in dismay 
Lest some omen in it lay, 
Feared Batrachian meant to say 
'Twas their, destinies to stay 
In the frog-pond dismally 

Till their lives were over, 
No wedding feast, no nuptial day, 

No hubby dear — no, never ! 

Cooling Spring, our pride of yore, 
Yellow with the tonic ore ; 
Saratoga never bore 
Drafts so healthy and so pure, 

'Mid such lilies flashing; 
Oh, the good old Eastern Shore, 
Sixty years ago or more, 
Joys afloat like streams that pour 

From thy depths refreshing. 
Here I grope and I would fain 
Quaff thy crystal flood again 
But I search and search in vain, 

Dammed and desecrated ; 
All thy pristime beauty slain, 
By the wreck I stand in pain, 

Romance assassinated ! 

1 
Still I dream. The warblers sing 
While my hands the pitchers bring 
For my Mother's gladdening 
Ere the days of saddening, 

In the days departed ; 
Yea, among those charms of thine, 
Here I found the Saviour mine; 
And within this sylvan Shrine, 
Tree of Life and Streams Divine, 

Heavenward I started; 



Makemieland Memorials 

Breezes blew from Heavenly hills, 
Canaan's vales and Kidron's rills, 

Giliad's zephyrs balmy; 
There Celestial dew distills 
Ointments sweet for all earth's ills, 

My Jehovah Shammah ! 

Thus I leave thee with a sigh, 

Filled with many a memory; 

Not a sound on earth and sky, 

Save the pinkypanky's cry, t 

That old frog's posterity 
In the stagnant waters. 
"Coffee, coffee," bursts on high, 

Bullfrogs and the smaller fry; 
"Coffee guzzlers," far and nigh 

Croak Sir Froggie's progeny, 

Tantalizing symphony, 

Phrogosophic psalmody, 

Poking fun at days gone by, 
And those flustered daughters ! 

The landmarks of the lustrous past, 

Into oblivion fading fast, 

Oh save them from the blight and blast 

And negligence inhuman ! 
Memorials of your Eastern Shore, 
Footprints of worthies gone before, 
The name and fame your fathers bore, 
Hear, hear the sacred past implore — 
The beauty and the form restore, 
And vindicate the days of yore. 

Each thoughtful man and woman ! 



Makemieland Memorials 123 



BLACK MAMMY'S LULLABY. 

I nussed my baby's mother, 

Ole Massie's joy and pride ; 
I saw my baby's mother 

De sweet and blushin' bride ; 
I helped to nuss dat mother 

When little Mas was born — 
De dew was on de clover, 
De lassie on de corn. 

By baby by, sweet baby by, 

And happy ole Black Mammy— 
De dew was on the clover, 
De tassle on de corn. 

I saw my baby's mother, 

De eyes of Heavenly brown ; 
I saw de paleness comin', 

De sickness pull her down. 
De baby on her bosom, 

Black Mammy by her side ; 
'Take care of baby, Mammy," 
And so she said and died. 
By baby by, sweet baby by, 

And weepin' ole Black Mammy- 
"Take care of baby, Mammy," 
And so she said and died. 

Dey laid her 'mong de roses, 

De ole plantation grave, 
Wid laurel blossoms bloomin'. 

Out where de pine tree wave ; 
To me dat boy was nestlin' 

Like birdie in de nest, 
And clingin' close and closer 
To dis ole colored breast. 
By baby by, sweet baby by. 

And troubled ole Black Mammy 
And clingin close and closer 
To dis ole colored breast! 



124 Makemieland Memorials 

Dese shoulders now are bendin', 

Dese eyes are growin' dim; 
He'd die for ole Black Mammy, 
Black Mammy'd die for him ! 
To-day he weds Miss Jessie, 
To-day he brings her home, 
And both shall be my childrens 
Until anudder come. 

By baby by, sweet baby by, 

And glory halleluyer — 
And both shall be my childrens 
Until another come ! 



DEAD IN DIXIE. 



Beautifully read by a lady at the Dedication of the Con fed' 
rate Monument at Parksley, Accomack Co., Virginia. 

Hail, ye dead, in glory resting, 

Fallen on the fields of strife, 
Love to native land attesting 

With your heart's-blood and your life; 
You our theme and boast to-day, 
Sons of our Peninsula ! 

Years have passed since you departed, 

We your comrades growing old, 
But by true and faithful hearted 

Still your praises shall be told; 
Friends of Jackson and of Lee, 
Hail, ye martyr'd Thirty Three ! 

By your prowess in the battle, 

Steady 'mid the gushing gore, 
By the rifle's flash and rattle, 

By the cannon's belch and roar, 



Makemieland Memorials 125 

We salute you, rear and front. 
In the fight's terrific brunt ! 

By the right as you conceived it, 

By the old gray suit you wore, 
By the truth as you believed it 

And our dear old Eastern Shore, 
Land of your nativity, 
Grand heroic Thirty Three ! 

By the homes that you defended, 

By your wounds and by your scars, 
By the heights of fame ascended 

With the gallant stars and bars, 
We accord you ardent praise 
In the land between the Bays ! 

Hark ! they hear Virginia calling ! 

Foes are on her sacred soil; 
Blood is flowing, men are falling 

'Mid the carnage and the spoil ! 
Hark ! the bugle and the drum — 
Motherland, we come, we come ! 

See, their skiff is on the waters, 

Seize the rudder, man the oar. 
Leaving sweethearts, wives and daughters, 

And the good old Eastern Shore; 
Dixie, # Dixie — duty's voice — 
This makes heroes of the boys ! 

To the camp and to the battle, 

Many to return no more; 
Eastern Shoremen on their mettle 

For their proud old Eastern Shore; 
Iron nerve and constancy 
Of our dauntless Thirty Three! 

Sing your songs above their slumbers, 

Ever fresh and ever new ; 
Dixie's songs in plaintive numbers, 

For they used to sing them too ; 
Sung them in the camp at night. 
Sung them marching to the fight ! 



T26 Makemieland Memorials 

Years have flown and still are flying 
And our ranks are growing thin ; 

All are aging, some are dying, 

None are what we once have been ; 

But unwavering still we stay 

By our comrades passed away ! 

Heart to heart to-day we gather, 
Loyal camp of U. C. V's, 

And the souls that never waver 
Of our peerless U. D. C's ; 

Faithful to our faithful dead, 

Those who fought and those who bled ! 

Thank the Lord that war inhuman 
Long into the past has died; 

Noble men and noble women 
Were arrayed on either side; 

Soldiers of the gray and blue 

Meet and greet as brothers do ! 

Peace has come in smiles of beauty, 
Nights unstartled, tranquil days ; 

Kindred hearts allied for duty 
In the land between the Bays ; 

To one purpose bosoms plighted, 

North and South in soul united ! 

But no, never — Ah no, never, 
Be forgot fair Dixie's braves; 
Still they're ours and ours forever. 

Honored lives and treasured graves; 
Call the roll and keep each name 
Fragrant on the scrolls of fame ! 

With the heroes of the ages," 
Battles lost and battles won, 

Fields renowned on History's pages, 
Thermapolae and Marathon, 

So the Muses yet shall tell 

Of the conflicts where ye fell ! 



Makemieland Memorials 127 

Sing the songs, repeat the story 

Fresh and fragrant evermore— 
They the pride and they the glory 

Of our cherished Eastern Shore; 
Hail, devoted Thirty Three, 
Heirs of immortality! 

Sing your songs, ye loyal bosoms, 

Dixie's maids and Dixie's queens; 
Wreathe your hearts among the blossoms 

Chapleted with evergreens; 
Standing thus beside your dead, 
Lo, their graves are comforted ! 



THE HYMNS THEY LOVED. 

Give me the old-time music that came and 

came to stay; 
Our loved ones loved the old songs before 

they passed away ; 
They used to sing with bounding hearts 
ere yet they won the prize— 
"When I can read my title clear to man- 
sions in the skies." 

* 

The well-worn hymns of other years, the 

tunes of other days, 
Our buried singers tuned their lips to these 

sweet harmonies, 
And voices silent now in death once sent 
the strains on high — 
"On Jordan's stormy banks I stand and 
cast a wishful eye." 

Our graveyards have their minstrelsy, the 

warblers in the trees, 
The robins, blue-birds, mocking birds that 

sparkle in the trees. 



/>->^z-*^*^ 



128 Makemieland Memorials 

But never sweeter melodies than when our 
Mothers said — 
"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber, holy 
angels guard thy bed." 

Since then the solemn hearses along these 
roads have rolled; 

The sainted ones are chanting now to shin- 
ing harps of gold, 

And through the Heavenly corridors the 
symphony is heard — 
"How firm a foundation ye saints of the 
Lord." 

We've stood beside the open grave and 

sung the old-time hymns, 
An unction in the ancient tunes no later 

fancy dims ; 
Rich cadences immortal, no, nevermore to 

die — 
"Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy 

bosom fly." 

The old-time solos linger yet, still lighting 

up the dark, 
As Noah's dove with olive branch still 

lingered near the Ark; 
Ah hear ye not the flight of wings around 

each burial place — 
"Ye angels who stand round the Throne 

and view our Immanuel's face. 

"I want to be an angel and with the angels 
stand ;" 
So sang those little children now with the 
angelic band ; 
"Shall we gather at the River?" Oh yes, 
it was no dream, 
They rest beneath the tree of life beside 
the Crystal Stream. 



Makemieland Memorials 129 

The old folks liked the tested airs of loving 

adoration; 
Old Hundred, Greenville, Golden Hill and 

good old Coronation; 
Up there behold the purified as at His feet 

they fall, 
"Bring forth the royal diadem and crown 

Him Lord of all." 

"Shall we meet each other there?" Ye pil- 
grims on the road, 
Ere long I'm sure we'll meet and greet 

beside the Throne of God, 
All singing there together as before His 
feet we bow — 
"Majestic sweetnees sits enthroned upon the 
Savior's brow." 

The hour is surely coming, glorious Resur- 
rection days, 

When all our sad funeral songs shall glad- 
den into praise; 

And we shall sing in unison within that 
blest abode — 
"Jesus sought me when a stranger wander- 
ing from the fold of God." 

We love to bring old-fashioned flowers and 

lay them on the tombs; 
We love to bring old-fashioned hymns to 

mingle their perfumes; 
Ye sainted choirs, with you we'll join and 

touch the golden string — 
"Joy to the world, the Lord is come; let 

earth receive her King." 

Loud hosannas, sweet reunions, hands for- 
ever clasped in love ; 
"Hark ten thousand harps and voices sound 
the note of praise above ;" 



130 Makemieland Memorials 

Dear old graveyards in rapt chorus burst- 
ing into chords sublime — 
"In the Cross of Christ I glory, towering 
o'er the wrecks of time." 

The tearful songs of other days become 

triumphant Psalms ; 
"Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep," shall wake 

'mid waving palms; 
"O where shall rest be found" then becomes the 

glad refrain — 
"There is a land of pure delight where saints 

immortal reign." 

Oh yes. the hour approaches when radiance 

far and wide 
Shall gild these ancient graveyards, with 

splendors glorified; 
And when in rapt Doxologies that lift our 

heart on high. 
"Praise God from whom all blessings flow" 

shall echo to the sky." 

All hail, great Coronation Day, that lights 

the sea and land, 
"From Greenland's icy mountains to Afric's 

coral strand;" 
Till all the graveyards of the earth wnth 

acclamations ring — 
"O grave, where is thy victory, O death, 

where is thy sting!" 



PINE SHATS. 



Have you ever, have you ever — 
Ever seen the pine-shats fall? 

Yet the shiny things are resting 
Like a carpet over all ; 

Wafted in their downward flight, 

Saw you ever one alight? 



Makemieland Memorials 131 

Have you ever — no you never, 

Never heard a whispered sound, 
As the gentle waifs descended 

Noiselessly upon the ground; 
Dropping in the pineries, 
Silent as the silences. 

Have you ever seen the fairies 

Gliding through the voiceless woods, 
Queen Titania and her courtiers 

Flitting through the solitudes? 
Yet they're there! by hill and dell ; 
Ask the pines and they can tell! 

Have you ever heard the poems 

Breathing through the stately trees, 
Lyrics, madrigals and cantos, 

Rhyming through their harmonies? 
Yet they're there! in every tree 
Sweetest pine- woods poesy! 

Have you seen the long-departed 

Walking through the quiet shades- 
Names and tones and smiles and memories, 

'Mid the mystic promenades? 
Where the fathers used to tread, 
To the soul they are not dead ! 

Have you read the dim traditions 

Of the dwellers 'mid the pines, 
Bosom stories, quaint romances, 

Jewels, pearls and golden mines? 
If you treat the pine trees well, 
Many a legend they can tell ! 

Passing through the dreamy tree-tops, 

Tinting all the sylvan scene, 
Know ye how the pine-woods Artist 

Paints and keeps them evergreen? 
Leaves His signet over all, 
Soundless as the needles fall? 



132 • Makemieland Memorials 

Can you tell me of their magic 

As they fertilizing lie, 
And enrich the sweet-potatoes, 

And the sweet-potato pie? 
Cultivating taste and then 
Making thoroughbreds of men? 

Who has seen or heard the odors 
Breathing out their healing balms, 

Soothing thought and weary body, 
Silent as the evening calms? 

Balsams which when days are sad, 

Make us think of Giliad? 

Who has seen or heard the heart-beats, 
Worshipping at Nature's Shrines, 

Noiseless loves, untold devotions 

As we wandered through the pines — 

While some sylph-like dream enchants, 

Those old pines our confidantes? 

'Mid the myrtle and the holly, 
'Mid the low arbutus vines, 

If you have a darling secret, 
Go and tell it to the pines ; 

Their sympathy perennial shines — 

I love the man that loves the pines ! 

Have you seen or heard the Furies, 
Lurking in the dim alcoves, 

Watching, waiting for the murderer 
Who would mar the piney groves? 

Oh the Vandal's fell designs ! 

I hate the man that hates the pines ! 



Makemieland Memorials 133 



PAWPAW PARADISE. 

We went out chasin' pawpaws, 

In de soft October time, 
And life was in de ha-has — 
Ha, ha, ha — 
And gals were in der prime; 
And nebber chasin pawpaws 
Was dere ebber sich a time, 
When we were in de ha-has — 
Ha, ha, ha — ha, ha, ha — 
And Sallie.in her prime! 

De fruit de frost had mellowed 

And yellowed in de dew, 
And sho' dat fruit was luscious — 
Ha, ha, ha — 
And Sal was luscious too ! 
And nebber chasin' pawpaws 

Was dere ebber sich a time, 
When we were in the ha-has — 
Ha, ha, ha — ha, ha, ha — 
And Sal was in her prime ! 

I bit one of dem goodies — 
I thought it was my Sal; 
'Twas sweet but not more sweeter- 
Ha, ha, ha — 
Than was my little gal ! 

And nebber chasin' pawpaws 
Was dere ebber sich a time, 
When we were in de ha-has — 
Ha, ha, ha — ha, ha, ha — 
And Sal was in her prime ! 

One bite we bit togedder, 

Our mouths smacked side by side ; 
I swore I'd be de bridegroom — 
Ha, ha, ha — 

She spect she'd be de bride! 



134 Makemieland Memorials 

And nebber chasin' pawpaws 
Was dere ebber sich a time, 

When we were in de ha-has — 
Ha, ha, ha — ha, ha, ha — 
And Sal was in her prime ! 



CHILDREN OF THE EVERGREENS. 

In the Land of Evergreens, 

Where the laurel, pine and holly, 
With their many varied tints, 

Have sure cures for melancholy; 
Where the water-lilies grow, 

Floating in the river-grasses, 
There among magnolia blooms 

Smile our happy lads and lassies. 

In the Land of E\ergreens 

Cheerful bird-notes ever ringing, 
Robins, wrens and orioles, 

Ever winging, ever singing, 
In the clime of olden dreams, 

Flowing streams and sparkling waters, 
There spring up among the blooms 

Eastern Shoreman's sons and daughters. 

And the spirit of the past, 

Hoary legends and traditions, 
Float about the piny woods 

Like the gleam of apparitions; 
And among them like the mists, 

Graceful forms and genial faces, 
Smiles two hundred years of age, 

Of the ancient lads and lassies. 

In the old Colonial days, 

Underneath the azure heavens, 

Little prattlers played their pranks 
In the home of William Stevens; 



Makemieland Memorials 135 

John and William, James and Anne, 

Youthful hearts as gay as ever — 
There the four like water-birds 

Laughed beside the laughing river. 

Down upon the Jenkins farm, 

Where that tomb is lowly lying, 
Mother Mary's preacher-sons 

Many a freak and trick were plying 
Preacher's kids; and Henry then 

Teaches them the Bible teaching 
While they sit in this old Church, 

Listening to their Father preaching. 

On the banks of Holden's Creek 

Played Makemie's brace of daughters, 
Sweet Elizabeth and Anne, 

Where the seabirds wade the waters; 
When their Father comes from far, 

Hear we not their voices hailing? 
Do we see him take his pets 

In the sloop Tabitha sailing? 

Oh the fragrant Long Ago, 

Youthful hope and youthful vision, 
Friendships of a golden past, 

Pocomoke's romance Elysian ; 
Still among the Evergreens 

Here and there the vision passes, 
Where the old endearments bloomed 

And the laddies loved the lassies. 

By the marge of living streams, 

In the pensive woodland bowers, 
In these gardens of the soul, 

God is still among the flowers; 
And the land of vine and pine 

Has its fadeless recollections 
And unwithering evergreens 

In the realms of the affections. 



136 Makemieland Memorials 

Where before the whispering breeze 

Cypress foliage waves and tosses ; 
Where young hearts of Long Ago 

Sleep beneath the graveyard mosses ; 
Where by old Rehoboth's Courts 

Comes the vision and repasses, 
Still the heart has its own world 

And the laddies love the lassies. 

There they woo and there they wed 

As in seasons gray and olden, 
All the brooks and all the streams 

Their own Edens fair and golden; 
'Mid the laurels and the pines, 

Cupid plots in shady porches, 
While our minstrel Lizzie Smith 

Plays and sings the Wedding Marches ! 



ONE OF HER ST.ANDBYS;. 
E. G. P. 

In the footsteps of his father, 
In the mission love endears, 

For the weal of Old Rehoboth, 
Many, many be his years! 

May the seasons bring news gladness 
And each morn a new reward, 

For the honor of Rehoboth 
And the glory of the Lord ! 

In the footprints of Makemie, 
Treading where Makemie trod, 

So he labored for Rehoboth, 
Standing by Makemie's God ! 

Once the Temple worn and weary, 
Sad, decrepit, crumbling down, 

Who stood firm and saw her rescued, 
Who alone but Emerson? 



Makemieland Memorials 137 

When to save Makemie's ashes, 

God's appointed hour had struck, 
Ending Vandal desecration, 

Who stood boldly by McCook? 

When his years on earth have ended, 

So, beside old Pocomoke, 
Grateful lovers of Rehoboth 

Should erect a Shaft to Polk! 



TO THE ELECT LADIES ; 

Miss Agness and Miss Elizabeth. 
Old Rehoboth sends her greetings 

To her Sweethearts in the North, 
Kindly souls and holy promptings, 

Scottish blood and Scottish worth — 
Stretching out their cordial hand 
To our famed Makemieland. 

Here the venerable Temple 

Through brave centuries has stood, 
Faithful to the old blue banners, 

Loyal witness for her God ; 
For the faith inherited 
From great Scotland's martyr'd dead. 

Old Rehoboth, old Rehoboth, 

Sound and staunch and orthodox, 

Sends her love to those two sisters, 
Daughters of the land of Knox ; 

Whose sweet thoughtfulness distills 

Like heather-blood from Scotia's hills ! 

Borne on pensive, plaintive breezes, 
Blowing from the Chesapeake, 

Floating from that shrine of beauty 
Down upon fair Holden's Creek, 

Makemie's voice T seem to hear, 

Old Presbyterian Pioneer: — 



138 Makemieland Memorials 

"Hail," he says, "ye Scottish lassies, 

Prompt your largess to bestow, 
Helpers of my Sanctuary 

Planted in the Long Ago, 
Where I planned and wrought till death, 
Fought the fight and kept the faith ! 

"Here I landed, loved and labored, 
Here I prayed and here I spoke, 
Sailing in my sloop Tabitha 

Up and down the Pocomoke, 
Seeking exiles in their need, 
Scattering wide the precious seed. 

"Old Rehoboth, first born daughter, 
In her courts 'there still is room' 
For the true and noble-hearted 

Through the covenant years to come, 
Mother-Church, she breathes a prayer 
For her offspring everywhere ! 

"Your Makemie's benedictions 
On my Scottish kin shall rest, 
Those who help Makemie's mission, 

Sisters of the generous breast; 
Blessings from the Chesapeake, 
Benisons from Holden's Creek !" 



WHEN ELLEN WENT AWAY. 

The weary years are drooping, 
These locks are thin and gray; 

Old age is tired and very lone, 
Since Nellie went away; 

Old and gray, old and gray, 

I care not long to stay; 

The Winter chilled the blossoms, 
When Nellie went away ! 



Makemieland Memorials 139 

I stood in yonder graveyard 

Beside her tomb to-day, 
The dearest spot on earth to me, 

Since Nellie went away* 
Old and gray, old and gray, 
I care not long to stay; 
The blight was on the meadows 

When Nellie went away ! 

We traveled long together, 

The sunshine on our way; 
The sparkle now of life has gone, 

Since Nellie went away; 
Old and gray, old and gray, 
I care not long to stay, 
The sunshine lost its sunshine then 

When Nellie went away. 

Her voice was like the birdsongs 

And singing all the day, 
Earth's sweetest songs are heard no more 

Since Nellie went away; 
Old and gray, old and gray, 
I have not long to stay, 
And music lay a-dying then 

When Nellie went away ! 



THE QUEEN OF ACCHAWMACHE. 

The King is gone; I'm left alone 

Of all his sons and daughters ; 
Both he and they have sailed away 

Upon the phantom waters ; 
Ah hear ye not the death-chant's strains, 

While cold the death damp gathers? 
'Twas royal blood froze in those veins, 

For Kings have been my Fathers ! 



140 Makemieland Memorials 

And Wackawamp well loved the Bays, 

The seasons bland and fertile, 
The Summer days and silking maize, 

The land of pine and myrtle, — 
The Chieftain's bosom yearned and burned 

For fadeless tribes to follow, 
Heirs of this goodly heritage 

Of laurel-bloom and holly. 

I stand alone; my Father's gone; 

A woman faint and weary, 
I'm doomed to own a tottering throne, 

Bereft and solitary; 
About our home they come, they come, 

And crowd into our places, 
These refugees from o'er the seas, 

The beautiful pale faces. 

'1 
They call me Queen; I stand between 

The impact of the races, 
The wigwam in its feebleness, 

The might of these white faces, — 
My Father's mind was good and kind 

To these incoming strangers ; 
I take the throne, forlorn and lone, 

To face the thickening dangers. 

And Kiktopeake by ford and creek, 

And friendly Debedeavon, 
The Laughing King of Accomack,* 

Gave welcome, home and haven; 
Now numbers press our helplessness, 

White navies vex the water, 
And Wackawamp now fain bequeaths 

Their friendships to his daughter. 

* The "Laughing King of Accomack" is mentioned by Cap- 
tain John Smith in his first visit to the Eastern Shore. The 
Will of the Queen's Father is still found on the ancient Court 
Records at Eastville. 



Makemieland Memorials 141 

I do not know; the hoarse winds blow 

Like muffled hordes invading. 
And in the mists do not I see 

The Redmen dimly fading? 
They crowd us, crowd us everywhere, 

By forest, field and river, 
Till Laughing Kings of Accomack 

Shall smile no more forever! 

O beauteous land, blue sky and strand 

And nurseries of our Mothers, 
These seaside dreams and sunny streams 

Shall they pass on to others? 
These balmy groves and sparkling coves 

And breezes ocean-laden — 
No Indian lad the shades to tread, 

No step of Indian maiden? 

Who then shall guard the Indian's graves? 

Who mourn the tribes departed? 
Who drop a tear for nameless braves 

The true and noble-hearted? ' 
Like circling seagulls o'er the brine, 

Like flight of frightened plover, 
I see the ghosts of vanished hosts, 

The maiden and her lover. 

And Chincoteague and Pungoteague. 

Onancock and Mosongo, 
And Occohannock, Watchapreague, 

Matomkin, Machapungo — 
The names shall float on down the years 

In weird reverberations, 
The epitaphs of fallen Chiefs, 

Death-songs of buried nations! 

I'm left a Queen ! but I have seen 

The deepening of the shadows, 
The apparitions in the pines, 

The spectres on the meadows; 



142 Makemieland Memorials 

O woe is me ! I see, I see, 
Like cloud-drifts on the water, 

The wraiths of Wackawamp's dead crown 
And sceptre of his daughter! 

Manitt! Manitt ! the Redmen's God, 

What journey hast Thou taken, 
Away, away, with spear and rod 

And left our tribes forsaken? 
Or is there yet some Mightier One 

Now marshalling His legions, 
Who marches with the Westering sun 

To claim these Western regions? 



ANOTHER FAMILY GATHERING. 

Mother dear, our fair Rehoboth, 

'Mid the zephyrs soft and low, 
There was musing, in the gloaming, 

Of the pensive Long Ago; 
And the breeze was in the cedars, 

And the fairies in the oak, 
And the spell of days departed 

Rested on the Pocomoke. 

Then our Mother, fair Rehoboth, 

With her shoulders bending now, 
And the grace of age upon her 

And the white locks on her brow; 
'Mid the chirping of the robins 

And the humming of the bees, 
She had gathered there her children 

At her fond maternal knees. 

There were clustered good Monokin, 
And Snow Hill as white as snow, 

Rare Pitts Creek, gray Rockawalkin, 
And the spry Wicomico; 



Makemieland Memorials 143 

And above, along the seaside, 

Little modest Buckingham; 
Six choice daughters 'mid the pine trees, 

Laurel bloom and myrtle balm. 

"Come and gather close, my daughters, 

Listen to my words awhile"— 
Thus the voice of fair Rehoboth, 
With the sunlight in her smile— 
"•I will tell you now a story 

That will stir your heart, my dears, 
Tale of rich ancestral splendors 
In the reminiscent years. 

"Where your Presbyterian fathers 
Sought a refuge o'er the sea, 
That their worship be untrammeled, 
And the conscience might be free; 
Where they scattered through the forests 

And along the quiet streams; 
Here they waited for the Gospel, 

Breathed their prayers and dreamed their 
dreams. 

"Hark, ye saints, the news is spreading, 

Stealing through the solitudes, 
'Mid the ripples of the rivers 

And the silence of the wood's; 
He is coming, he is coming, 

And a burst of joy is heard, 
Young Makemie, brave Makemie, 

The Apostle of the Lord ! 

"Yes, his keel is on the waters— 

Gladsomely the morning broke; 
Loud hosannas wake the echoes 

Up and down the Pocomoke; 
Far and wide the tale is flying, 

Up and down, and up and down; 
He has landed, blest Evangel, 

In aroused Rehoboth Town! 



144 Makemieland Memorials 

"Col Stevens wrote the letter, 

God in Heaven endorsed the Call ; 
He is speaking, he is preaching, 

Blue-eyed son of Donegal ! 
They are listening — hallelujah — 

Scotch mnd Irish, one and all, 
Quakers, Anglicans and Indians, 

To the son of Donegal ! 

"'Twas not long before Monokin, 

Good Pitts Creek, Wicomico, 
Glad Snow Hill and Rockawalkin, 

All as blue as indigo, 
Had Makemie in their wigwams 

Joining in with song and psalm, 
Chorus of the clustered daughters 

Clear on up to Buckingham. 

"Blessings on my group of children 

Worthy of the Pioneers, 
Faithful heirs and witness-bearers 

Through* these long two hundred years 
Live for God in love together, 

One aspiring family ; 
Banded close for grand advances — 

See the lights along the sky ! 

"There our Founder raised his banners 

By the fine old Stevens home — 
Bible name upon the breezes, 

Yes Rehoboth — there is room ! 
Room for all the loyal workers 

Whereso'er Makemie trod 
And in faith and toil preempted 

This Peninsula for God!" 

Thus our Mother, old Rehoboth, 
With her fragrant memories full, 

Sturdy still for love and duty, 
Calvinistic, venerable, 



Makemieland Memorials 145 

Sits beneath her sacred bowers, 

Grounds by her Makemie given, 
Invoking on her thousand daughters 

Light and joy and peace from Heaven ! 



CARRIE'S PETS. 



A Monday Morning Recreation. 

In fair and rare Batrachian Land, 

Among the limped streams, 
The murmuring brooks and fairy nooks, 

Where Genus Rana dreams ; 
Where Tadpoles by the myriads 

Enliven all the bogs, 
Behold the Schoolfields and the Polks 

Importing Polliwogs ! 

With Tadpoles thick in marsh and pond, 

In puddle and in pool. 
With Tadpoles dancing in and out 

Like little girls at school; 
With Tadpoles playing hide and seek 

Like busy demagogues, 
Here comes the quaintest quirk of all — 

Imported Polliwogs ! 

Are Tadpole breeds degenerate, 

Like some of us in town? 
Is Tadpole aristocracy 

Beginning to run down? 
Is there a higher grade required, 

A nobler strain of frogs, 
That we're compelled to look abroad 

For fancy Polliwogs? 

I hear the Bull Frog in his den, 

Protest in venom green — 
'What in creation — ation — ation 

Do Polks and Schoolfields mean! 



146 Makemieland Memorials 

Are they reflecting on the cult 
Of us blue-blooded frogs, 

That thus they're trying to invent 
Superior Polliwogs?" 

I hear the Pinkapanky's grunt, 

The Rainfrogs and the Toads, 
As they in indignation met, 

Awaken all the woods; 
Insulted by this grim affront 

Upon their synagogues, 
Impeached by importation dire 

Of foreign Polliwogs ! 

One mad Batrachian swelled and puffed 

And swelled until he spoke — 
"My blood's as good as any blood 

That flows in Pocomoke ! 
My proud ancestry sat enthroned 

Upon the River logs 
A thousand years before you brought 

Your alien Polliwogs ! 

"I laugh at your Aquariums ! 

I scorn anx| dim disdain ! 
My home is in the wide lagoons, 

The world is my domain ! 
In freedom's wilds my frow and I 

Enjoy our dialogues, 
And spawn our vast posterity — 

Confound your Polliwogs ! 

"What splendid specimens you've got! 

Black demons mum and grum, 
And not a croak or Howdy spoke 

From your Tadpolium ! 
Ah listen to our minstrelsy 

Amid the fens and fogs; 
Then gaze upon the countenances 

Of your old Polliwogs ! 



Makemieland Memorials 147 

"I think of other frisky things 

A-wriggling up and down — 
The croakers seeing only ill 

In Pocomoky Town ; 
Perhaps you might improve your cats, 

Or howls of civic dogs, 
Or polish up the pedigrees 

Of human Polliwogs ! 
"Perhaps that Town Library grand 

You're hoping soon to see; 
Perhaps you mean to start a School 

To learn Tadpology ! 
Perhaps you'd drain the hidden quags 

Of secret drams and grogs, 
And purify the atmosphere 

Of boozy Polliwogs !" 



MY MADONNA. 



The world is full of gladness, 

Since baby came, since baby came 
The sad has lost its sadness, 

Since baby came; 
Oh beauty rich and rare, 
There's beauty in the air. 
There's beauty everywhere, 
Since baby came ! 
But nothing to compare, 
No sweetness anywhere 
Like darling little Mother, 
The precious little Mother! 

The crimson rose blooms brighter, 
Since baby came, since baby came; 

The lily's cheek is whiter, 
Since baby came; 

All glistening in God's light, 

All beauteous in God's sight, 



148 Makemieland Memorials 

The flowers a new delight. 
Since baby came! 

But never a bloom so bright, 
No petal pure and white, 
As darling little Mother, 
The precious little Mother! 

The wrens are sweeter singing, 

Since baby came, since baby came 
The robins' notes are ringing, 

Since baby came; 
The grove with music stirs, 
A warblers' universe, 
All happy choristers, 

But to proud Papa's ears, 
No music equals hers, 
The darling little Mother, 
The precious little Mother! 

No girl like Papa's girl, 

Since baby came, since baby came ; 
No pearl like Papa's pearl, 

Since baby came; 
The heiress of the race, 
To love and cheer and bless, 
She fills a boundless space, 
Since baby came ! 

But never can displace 
The angel form and face 
Of darling little Mother, 
The precious little Mother! 



MakkmielAnd Memorials 149 



EASTERN SHORE GRAVE IN THE WEST. 



Born in Maryland, died in Louisiana, Asleep in Missouri. 

It was the last time, and she kenw it well, 
That she should ever pass those doors alive 
And sit in worship in the old Rock Church. 
When next she came that way, she would be borne 
By reverent hands and hearts and gently laid 
Before the pulpit. Garbed in purest white, 
She took her place surrounded by choice friends, 
Friends whom she loved in life next to her God, 
Their ever-loyal hearts enshrined in hers ; 
For, having loved, she loved on to the end. 

The organ chimed of Heaven ; 

The dear old Hymns and Psalms 
Uplifting toward the Sinless Climes 

Where wave the victor's palms ; 
I think that low responses 

Through all that holy hour 
Came echoing back to her rapt thought 

From God's Celestial Choir. 

Her hands and neck and face were Parian; 

Within her veins the life-blood pulsing slow 

And leaving paleness where red roses used 

To bloom. Her raiment fell about her form 

All marble-like, and all was stainless white, 

A vision as of lilies and of snow-flakes. 

We thought of angels and the aspodels, 

Of Heavenly purity that knows no spot, 

Of those transplanted ones whose robes are washed 

From every stain by Sacrificial Blood. 

Ah was there ever whiteness 

More rare than hers that day — 
Fair emblem of the saintliness 

In gardens far away ! 



150 Makemieland Memorials 

I'm sure her thoughts were blossoms 

Whose petals too were white, 
And had their holy kindredship 

In vales of undimmed light ! 

We wonder how they feel, the waiting ones, 
Who know they walk along the Borderland, 
Prepared at any moment now to step 
Across the line and share the Great Beyond ! 
We wonder how they thrill when thinnest veil 
Hangs vague between until they scarcely know 
Upon which side they are — like Paul of old, 
The mists lit up, the bright Third Heavens in view. 
'Twas thus she sat and hardly knew if songs 
They sang were born of earth or Paradise ! 

And never was there whiteness 
More white that day than hers, 

There seated in the old Rock Church 
Among the worshipers ; 

The streams of life were flowing 
On both sides Jordan's strand, 

The desert sands behind her 
And close the Promised Land ! 

While on this visit, it had been her thought 
To die in Marshall, fair Ridge Park in sight. 
She had in mind the welcomes when she came, 
The Pastor's wife, a stranger but not long; 
The sheen of many an unforgotten day; 
Sweet homes thrown ever wide to greet her steps 
And gild her life. The Ladies Mission Band, 
Her joy next to her husband and her child — 
To live with them, to die with them were sweet, 
And have them light her pathway to the grave ! 

With them had grown the whiteness 

Whiter as years passed on, 
Nearer the Land of Spotlessness, 

Nearer the Great White Throne; 



Makemieland Memorials 151 

One of that Band, her neighbor, 

Already passed away, 
Was at the gates to meet her, 

The white-robed Mattie Rae. 

There was no dread— no shrinking at the thought— 
A death in Marshall. Thence her Mother went, 
She too as white as ever walked the earth 
Or entered Heaven; yonder her body lay 
Awaiting companionship. There would sleep 
In coming years full many a treasured friend- 
Jean Campbell and the rest. These genial homes 
Appeared not far, these Shrines of prayer not far, 
From bowers of Evergreen beyond the storms, 
The final haven of the purified. 

For here they put on whiteness, 

The winsome sisterhood — 
Baptismal vows, Communion Feasts, 

The water and the blood; 
And so the Highway whitens 

To holier scenes above — 
The tarnish and the taint exchanged 

For consummated love ! 

And there she sat in that symbolic drapery. 
White as the whitest dove that soars and skims 
The upper airs. The skies seem bending near 
Till earthly praise and Heavenly praise were one. 
Whom prayed she for at such an hour? Whose names 
Were borne aloft upon her strong white faith 
And carried fondly to Jehovah's Throne? 
Whom prayed she for, the last until ere long 
She should be brought to pause within those Courts 
Upon her travel to the chosen grave? 

We thought of the fine linen, 

The vesture pure and white, 
The righteousness of sainted ones, 

The palms almost in sight; 



152 Makemieland Memorials 

'Twas more than earthly beauty 

That all about her shone, 
The likeness of the glorified 

About the great White Throne ! 

And thus she came and went, to tread those aisles 

No more. Saline had seen an angel pass. 

Some disappointment to her waiting wings, 

Not to ascend from these Missouri fields — 

So passed she Southward, there to bleach and pale 

And spread her pinious on the Southern breeze ; 

And then give back to her old favorite Church 

The faded form and the magnolia tints — 

Her casket given by warm Dixie hearts, 

These grounds bestowed by bosoms just as true! 

And thus beyond the shadows, 

The turmoil and the strife, 
'Mid visions of the Cloudless Land, 

We thought of her white life; 
'Twas easy to conceive her 

Where living waters flow, 
Arrayed in robes immaculate 

And whiter than the snow ! 

And many a treasure sleeps in fair Ridge Park 
As dear to sundered hearts as she to ours. 
A thousand graves, increasing year by year, 
Make this old hill more hallowed all the while; 
Each lowered coffin holding some rare gem 
And linking earth and Heaven in neighborhood. 
And preacher's wives rest here with those who preach 
And those who hear. Thus congregations leave 
The pulpits and the pews for good Ridge Park, 
And here await the white-robes and the palms. 

Ah the whiteness, Ah the whiteness, 

When the Archangel's trump shall sound, 

Gathered treasures, flawless jewels, 
From the dear old burial ground; 



Makemieland Memorials 153 

Ah the whiteness, without blemish, 

Open tombs and bright array, 
Decorations, Coronations, 

When we meet on that glad day ! 

A lover of Ridge Park from far away 

Sees gathered hosts to-day upon the hill, 

Sweet blossoms mingling with sweet memories — 

The dead more fondly loved as years go by, 

Hearts clinging still — and it is beautiful ! 

And then above these scenes I seem to see 

A cloud of witnesses from yonder sky 

Now looking down in smiles, our living dead, 

As true, endearing, as they ever were — 

And Heaven and earth appear to meet and touch ! 

May they not, the dear departed, 

Hover o'er this sacred scene, 
And your darlings anc 1 my Ellen, 

Gazing from the Heights serene, 
Garbed in whiteness everlasting, 

Answering from the joys above, 
See to-day our upturned faces, 

Feel the throbbing of our love ! 

Decoration Day, 1910. 



FACING THE SUNRISE. 

Optimistic? surely, surely! At the age of 
seventy-seven, 

Border-lights like stars at evening all along 
the verge of Heaven, 

With the hopefulness of Springtime and the 
ozone in the air, 

God in nature, God in Scripture, God in move- 
ments everywhere, 

Why not gladden with the gladness, all the old 
man's bosom stirred 

With the ' brightness of the promise and the 
glory of the Lord ! 



154 Makemieland Memorials 

And I know the world is better, growing better 
all the time, 

With the Apostolic Gospel fresh as in its early 
prime, 

God's elect in vaster numbers now responding 
to the call, 

Mor? than in the days of Peter or the minis- 
try of Paul; 

And the heathen tribes are listening as they 
never had before, 

And afar from East to Westward stands ajar 
the open door. 

I have seen the Churches fighting in the fabled 

good old days, 
Hostile camps in bristling armor, raids and 

Theologic frays ; 
Now we see them clothed in beauty, drawing 

closer side by side, 
Joined against the common foemen, hearts and 

temples open wide, 
Brotherhood in pew and pulpit, hand in hand 

and knee to knee, 
Moving under One Great Leader on to certain 

victory ! 

I have seen the nation ravaged, red with fratri- 
cidal gore, 

Hate, malignity, oppression, even when the war 
was o'er ; 

I have seen the rancor fading and the anger 
pass away, 

Hand in hand the grand old warriors, wearers 
of the blue and gray, 

And the South according honors to the brows 
of Northern braves, 

And the Yankees laying chaplets on the grassy 
Southern graves. 



Makemieland Memorials 155 

In the floods and conflagrations and the earth- 
quake's awful scourge, 

Lo, from every State and Section, like the 
ocean's tidal surge, 

Flowed the gifts of men and women, and the 
contributions poured 

Like the streaks of dawn prophetic and the lar- 
gess of the Lord; 

These are footprints of the Gospel, these are 
signs along the way 

Of the coming of the kingdom and the sweet 
Millennial day ! 

Hark ! grim Mars has had his warning that his 

bloody fueds must cease, 
Louder calls to arbitration from the conquering 

Prince of Peace, 
And a notice to the nations and the rulers that 

they pause 
In the slaughter of the people and in trampling 

on God's laws; 
That they beat their swords to ploughshares and 

their spears to pruning hooks 
And the virtues spring like flowers by old 

Eden's water-brooks ! 

In my time I've seen the voters all aroused and 

in their wrath 
Driving tempter and temptation from the poor 

inebriate's path ; 
Nay, dire alcohol's sad victim standing voting 

side by side, 
Under waving temperance banners for his babies 

and his bride, 
And the smiling of the rescued and the grasping 

of the hand 
As the plaudits of thanksgiving go resounding 

through the land ! 



156 Makemieland Memorials 

Yes, Oh yes, the world is better since my years 
began to be, 

And the gladness is around me like the song 
of bird and bee, 

And the blossoms grow in sweetness as the 
bosom grows in love, 

As my steps are drawing nearer to the gardens 
up above, 

While the large horizon brightens and a rain- 
bow gems the tears, 

And the hardnesses grow mellow with the 
softening of the years. 

And the Bible blooms with fragrance and the 
Churches nearer grow 

With the promise of to-morrow mingled with 
the Long Ago, 

And the former ties are richer and new light 
is on the sky 

For the King in all His beauty will be coming 
by and bye, 

And the sheen of hope supernal all about my 
way entwines 

Like the freshness of the cedars and the green- 
ness of the pines ! 



TRAMPING IT. 



June, 1910. 



And forth we hied, two gallant knights, 
To mount the winds and see the sights 
A Barrister and Parson joined, 
The Law and Gospel intertwined, 
To breathe the seaside breezes bland, 
And sample fair Makemieland. 
Two hundred and fifty summers back, 
The Bowens dropped on Accomac, 



Makemieland Memorials 157 

Spread through the Shore till they became 

An host — and Legion was their name. 

More than a century ago, 

McMaster rode these regions through, 

And thought of Heaven and preached the Word, 

And sat at Madam Holden's board, 

And, crowning glory of his life, 

He captured a Virginia wife ! 

And now these modern Tramps swing round 

This thoughtful old historic ground, 

And, while the Past about them plays, 

Imbibe the spell of ancient days. 

Two border Counties close of kin 
Salute and kiss across the line, 
Each in its State a King or Queen, 
With kindred blood a-flow between; 
And Worcester — beau from ages back — 
Still tips his hat to Accomac, 
While both conserve ancestral Shrines, 
And share the balsams of the Pines. 

With reverent brow we bow to thee, 
Great State of Washington and Lee ; 
We stand on soil where Cropper rose 
In wrath against his country's foes, 
And by his tomb we stand and praise 
This Paladin of martial days, 
So prompt with bayonet and gun 
To hasten to our Washington; 
While good Anne Holden's cheering words 
Give keenness to the flashing swords, 
Intent to break the Despot's chains, 
Her Father's fervor in her veins. 
To-day Sir John and I yet feel 
Virginia's pulse still staunch as steel ! 

And so we rambled on and on, 
The Parson and his Chaperon, 
For if there's ever man with powers 
To hoodoo all the flying hours, 



158 Makemieland Memorials 

Distill the nectar, catch the fun, 

And get the juice out — that's John! 

For never in his life before 

Was hustling Preacher made to soar 

Athwart so many charming scenes 

In that glad Land of Evergreens, 

And meet so many rarest folks 

And hear so many sparkling talks; 

The rapid flight of pleasant miles, 

The twinkle of congenial smiles — 

Like plays of bright kaleidoscopes — 

For gallant John, he knew the ropes, 

Where dwelt the Muses and the Graces, 

Just where to find the fairest faces, 

And where at fragrant doors to knock 

In Drummondtown and Onancock; 

For if some wizard of renown 

Knows best Virginia's sweets — that's John ! 

Full thirty good long Summers gone, 
The County's staunch and honored son, 
The genial Custis, welcomed me 
With frank Virginian courtesy, 
And aided in my sacred quest 
As still I delved and on I pressed 
In tireless and determined strife 
To bring Makemie back to life ; 
And now our Founder's come to stay, 
While Custis since has passed away; 
By his good daughter welcomed there, 
'Twas pleasant breathing his home-air. 
Thus when the living all are gone, 
That Shaft on Holden's will live on ! 

Rare Rural Hill's enchanted aisles, 
No Eden serpent in ten miles, 
Expectant Eve awaiting there 
Unfallen Adam to appear; 
The Rector's Apostolic fun 
Meandering down from Jefferson; 



Makemieland Memorials 159 

Like Roman Matron's Gracchi pearls, 
Two darling little Fletcher girls; 
Then Bowman's Folly's paradise, 
With all its famed celebrities — 
Within whose classic shades to lie 
Would make it easier to die ; 
Mount Custis and her grand Grandees, 
The booming of the neighboring seas, 
Matomkin gladdening to the East, 
The brooding peace for host and guest, 
Where fresh the sweet rose-arbor grows 
To deck its choicest human rose ! 

Then off to the historic Creek, 

The child and bride of Chesapeake, 

Where our Makemie used to preach, 

Where Nature woos with mystic speech ; 

Where we, as hungry as Arabs, 

Devoured Onancock's fish and crabs ; 

And where by St. Naomi's Shrine, 

The Powell tables are divine; 

Then known and loved through all these parts, 

The Poulson sisters — bless their hearts — 

The pride that still on Dixie doats, 

Jeff Davises in petticoats, 

And, better still, of Calvin's clans, 

Blue Southern Presbyterians ; 

And then we loved her as she came. 

The Fairy with old-fashioned name, 

Wee Charlotte, making kindred rich ; 

And was she birdling? was she witch? 

Was she cherub undefined? 

Or just a little Dixie child? 

If you'd enjoy romantic dreams, 

Go thread those "Necks" between the streams, 

The sparkle of the Creeks and Bays, 

The glamour of departed days, 

Poetic fancies in the air, 

Old family graveyards here and there, 



160 Makemieland Memorials 

And verdant vale and rustic hill, 

Where vague Tradition lingers still, 

And Legend faithful vigil keeps, 

And sometimes laughs and sometimes weeps, 

And ancient blood flows on content, 

The bluest on the Continent — 

Like limpid brook in sylvan glades 

That filters through the woodland shades. 

The denizens of these fair lands 

Possess the art of shaking hands, 

The inner magic in the clasp, 

The heart's pulsations in the grasp, 

The winsome welcomes on the lips 

And clear on out to finger-tips — 

And in a trice the deed is done, 

The conquest made, the guest is won ! 

If still you lack the subtle knack, 

Go take a trip through Accomac, 

And as the keynote to the song, 

Be sure to have our John along — 

To catch the charm, evoke the thrills, 

Adore the Pines — and pay the bills ! 



OUR MOTHER. 



Andasia Ironshire Franklin Bowen 
Died at Sunset May 31st, 1864. 

Month of laddie's Ordination, 

Last sunset of bonny May, 
Looking toward the pearly portals, 

Queen of Mothers passed av/ay; 
'Mid the requiem bass of Ocean, 

Ever changing, changeless Sea — 
And, no, never, since she faded, 

Was this world the same to me! 



' Makemieland Memorials 161 

She had wished, and his petitions 

By her dying couch arise; 
Ah, she'd only hear his sermons, 

Listening from the Upper Skies — 
In the pulpits of the future, 

Through the earth's wide wilderness, 
Weariness and journeyings often, 

Lone and longing, Motherless ! 

Mother's heart — no jewel like it, 

In its casket pure impearled ; 
Oh the Eastern Shore's sweet Mothers 

Are the sweetest in the world ! 
All the choicest call her Cousin ; 

Each beholder loves, admires ; 
Bosom deep as old Atlantic, 

Daughter of the Ironshires ! 

! 
Youngest of her dozen children, 

Baby of her older days, 
He looked forward to achievement 

For her sake and for her praise; 
So he dreamed and planned his sermons. 

So he dallied with his pen; 
Then she died — and inspiration 

Ne'er was quite the same again ! 

Green old age and rich and fragrant, 

'Twas not hard for her to go ; 
As the lotus folds its petals 

In the sunset's amber glow; 
So she faded, gently faded, 

As upon the verge we stood ; — 
Passing from her beds of roses 

To the gardens of her God ! 

We had thought our Mother aged, 

And it helped to check our tears ; 
Now her boys, the three old whiteheads, 

All have passed our Mother's years ; 



162 Makemieland Memorials 

Long has been the way without her, 
Thickening snow upon our brow; 

But of late the hurrying seasons 
Seem to bring her nearer now! 

Growing real in the gloaming, 

Smiling with the olden smile, 
And we know we tread the borders 

For she's closer all the while; 
And we're glad; for since that sunset 

When the angel escort came, 
Life and home and birds and blossoms 

Never since have been the same! 

None could tell in former seasons, 

'Mid the olden, golden hours, 
Which our Mother loved the better 

Her three laddies or her flowers ; 
Well, it comes — another sunset — 

And beyond the solitude, 
We will walk beside our Mother 

In the gardens of her God! 



MARYLAND VENISON. 

I sing the Musk Rat! Your big-headed Bards 

May rant all they please of their Monarchs and Lords; 

I'll warble my ditties and toss up my hat 

For Eastern Shore goodies and the bonny Musk Rat! 

Marsh Rabbit's the nickname they poke at him now, 
The frill which the Epicures weave for his brow; 
No, no — the old pet name, give me that, give me that — 
As I knew him in childhood, my chummy Musk Rat! 

The Cotton Tail's trail I have tracked through the woods; 

The pines and the laurels and dim solitudes; 

My traps and my snares and the fun and all that — 

But Br'er Rabbit's nowhere when you've tasted Musk Rat! 



Makemieland Memorials 163 

They rave of Jack Rabbits which gaily infest, 
With ears like a donkey's, the wild wooly West ; 
You fellows may eat him — as coarse as a cat — 
I claim for my palate the toothsome Musk Rat ! 

So clean in his baths, in his food and his furs ; 

Fair lady, his bedroom's as dainty as yours; 

In all that's fastidious so tidy and pat, 

And none more aesthetic than our dudish Musk Rat ! 

The balmy marsh breezes, refreshing and sweet, 
Condense and combine in his savory meat; 
And Eastern Shore cooks in their proud habitat 
Beat Esau's red pottage with the ruddy Musk Rat! 

A splash in the waters, like a Naiad he glides 
'Mid white water lilies through the twilight tides, 
A friend of the people and a good Democrat, 
And gathers his flavors for my stew of Musk Rat! 

Of old in Matomkin's salubrious climes, 
The days of the heroes, Revolution times, 
The sturdy old General, our Cropper once sat 
And heated his prowess on steaming Musk Rat ! 

No doubt but the Knox of benign Chesapeake 
Had sampled our Rat down on bright Holden's Creek; 
And Anne her bold hatred for Britons begat 
While playing the patriot — on native Musk Rat ! 

And thus do the brave, the refined and the fair 
Grow sleek on these viands nutritious and rare ; 
And all the Nine Muses — I'm certain of that — 
Are boosting this song of the fragrant Musk Rat! 



164 Makemieland Memorials 



BLUE MONDAY TABOOED. 

Blue Monday, no, no — I'll now of your gloom! /1 ^^C^^ 
The landscape rejoices, the world is in bloom; 
The warblers are busy, the sun's in the sky — 
They have no Blue Monday and neither will I ! 

Ere Friday has ended, my sermons are done, 

And Saturday rest-day, and cares not a one; 

No study, no worry, no nerves to carode — 

The sermons prayed over and left with their God! 

A Saturday stroll or a loll 'neath the trees, 

A nap or a scribbling of verses like these; 

A belles lettres feast or a neighborly chat, 

Or a note to my sweetheart or something like that. 

Then Sunday, bright Sunday, as fresh and as fair 
As Sharon's sweet rose with its cheer in the air; 
The pulpit magnetic, the wide-awake eyes 
That sparkle like stars in the Eastern Shore skies ! 

The gladness of preaching, the life of the Word, 
The nearness of Heaven, the touch of the Lord ; 
And bosoms respond and the fervor expands — 
The warming of hearts and the pressure of hands. 

Now Monday dawns smiling — no burden that day ; 
The shepherd in quiet can lovingly pray 
For the sheep and the lambs while he sips from the brooks 
That flow through the Edens of favorite books. 

Perhaps naughty preachers, the trouble with you 
Is eating too much and too little to do ; 
Digestion insulted, a scowl on the cheek, 
And so your Blue Monday drones on all the week ! 

Blue Monday — no, no ; your tricks I defy ! 
The Sabbath has glorified earth, sea and sky; 
Bravo to the preacher that grumbles no more; 
No need of Blue-Monday on the glad Eastern Shore ! 



Makemieland Memorials 165 



OYSTERDOM ANTIQUE AND MODERN. 

Old Plantation Creek — Divinely 
Floated dreamy fascinations 
All about the stretch of waters, 
Over hills and groves and marshes, 
Coves and curves and estuaries, 
Sparkling with their myriad diamonds, 
With bright Lyrics, Epics, Hymnals 
Written on the slumberous vistas : 
There the thoughtful Creek historic, 
As we sailed among the ripples 
On our supple launch Louisa, 
On us played its spells of sorcery; 
Beauteous Chesapeake behind us, 
While each moment new enchantment, 
Full of musings vague and mystic, 
Opened on the view before us. 

Old Plantation Creek — upon us 
Came in waves the old traditions, 
Backward near three hundred Summers, 
Far away in Sixteen — Fifteen, 
When our Eastern Shore's first settlers 
Landed here amid the splendors, 
Wondering at the wondrous beauty, 
Scenes primeval gemmed and jeweled, 
Virgin world, profound, mysterious, 
Eastern Shore a smiling wood-nymph 
Waiting to be wooed and mated. 

There we landed where they landed, 
Built our fires where they had built them 
Brought the oysters as they brought them. 
Such as sung by Roman Horace, 
Fat and luscious from their sea-beds; 
While the olden dreams poetic, 
Like the soft and pensive zephyrs, 
Breathed upon expectant gourmands, 
Thinking of ancestral oysters, 
Forbears of these modern treasures. 



1 66 Makemieland Memorials 

Old Plantation Creek — Upon it 

Stood of yore the Custis mansion, 

Arlington in pride and plenty; 

Old Dominion with its Manors, 

Cavaliers and Lords incipient, 

Planting in these Western furrows 

Pedigrees and Upper Tendom. 

But the Serpent, migratory, 

Enterprising navigator, 

Steered his caravel as consort, 

Crept intrusive in the garden, 

And again tricked Eve and Adam. 

Yonder tomb betrays the story, 

Tragedy of matrimony ; 

Arlington's unwedded Winters, 

Seven chilly bachelor Winters, 

Only seven worth the living 

To the doughty Septuagenarian ; 

Satire gruesome and sepulchral, 

Graveyard slam on that poor woman 

Who thought plunging down the hillsides 

Straight to drowning and perdition 

Better fate than life with Jonnie. 

There they feasted 'mid such landscapes, 

Fed on diamond-backs and oysters, 

Oysters stewed and fried and scalloped, 

Viands fit for wedded angels! 

Yet the shellfish in perfection, 

All delicious, rich, nutritious, 

Failed to exorcise the Devil ! 

But that tombstone, quaint and naughty 
Cannot blight our present banquet, 
For our fires are brightly burning, 
And the tempting shells are yawning, 
And the odors are ascending, 
Hungry appetites luxuriant. 
No, that cynical old tombstone, 
Cannot nullify the relish 
Of these F. F. V's of oysters, 



Makemieland Memorials 167 

Crowned and pedigreed descendants 
Of those mentioned by John Porey, 
First acclaimed in Western annals, 
Way, way back in Sixteen-seven, 
On the bottom thick as pebbles, 
Predecessors of these moderns, 
Ostrea Edulis in science, 
Oysters Eatable de facto. 

Thus along the shores romantic, 
Hazy with the days departed, 
Speckled with the flight of seabirds, 
There our sceptred cooks were smiling, 
Lou and Daisy, Birdie, Lilian, 
Opening out the dainty morsels 
With their deft and dainty fingers, 
Happier far than Madam Custis. 
There our host, Sir Lem, the Captain, 
Big as burly Indian Chieftain, 
Superintends the rural revels, 
Happy in dispensing pleasures, 
Happy in the joy of others, 
Bent on fattening up the preacher, 
And in saving all the women 
From the ghost of old John Custis! 

Thus the palates fed and feasted, 
Rioted, luxuriated; 
Thus dimensions were distended 
With some strain upon the vesture ; 
Oysters roasting, roasted oysters, 
Dish supremest in creation, 
Their own pearly shells the dishes, 
Beating all your Haviland China, 
Dresden Ware or Royal Wooster; 
Roasting in their natives juices, 
Fresh in richness from their sea-baths, 
Where they get superbest flavors 
From the gardens of the mermaids, 
Seasoned with the Ocean breezes, 
Stimuli and appetizers — 
This the bivalve in excelsis! 



1 68 Make mi eland Memorials 

No, you cannot know the oyster, 
Oysterdom in all its glory, 
Till you've turned an Eastern Shoreman 
Got the odors from the pine-woods, 
Got the poems from the laurel, 
From the cypress and the myrtle ; 
Then entice his royal highness 
From his palace in the sea-coves, 
Roast him with his memories on him 
Of the algae and the naiads, 
Mellowed with the ancient legends ; 
Now ecstatic with your captures, 
Smack your lips and feed on raptures ! 



INDIAN SUMMER LOVE. 

Dotage maybe, second childhood, 

Twist or quirk in heart or head, 
Musing lonely in the wildwood, 

Autumn splendors — and he said, 
'Merry, modest, misty maiden, 

Bonny Lita, bird or star, 
Honey bee with nectar laden, 

White in thought as angels are; 
Bonny Lita, bonny Lita, 
White in thought as angels are!" • 

Frosts had sered the landscapes over, 

Many a tender blossom dead, 
Leaves were falling and the clover 

Drooped its ensigns — while he said, 
'Sweetest sweetheart, ripe and mellow, 

Sweetest sung by lip or pen, 
Sunburst, loveburst, winsome Lita, 

And my heart is young again; 
Bonny Lita, bonny Lita, 
And my heart is young again!" 



Makemieland Memorials 169 

Indian Summer, pensive shadows, 

Golden rod and sumac red, 
Mystic haze along the meadows, 
Birdsongs flitting — and he said, 
"Ere the bleak and black December 

Wide his blighting blasts unfurl, 
Ere old age my veins encumber, 
She's my Indian Summer girl; 
Bonny Lita, bonny Lita, 
She's my Indian Summer girl ! 

"Souls their own St. Martin's Summer,*' 

So the gray day-dreamer said, 
"Halcyon days ere yet life's Winter 

Leaves the heart untenanted; 
Lita brings a smell of flowers, 

Lita gems a bridal scene, 
Lita crowns the Vernal hours, 
Lita, Indian Summer Queen ; 
Bonny Lita, bonny Lita, 
She my Indian Summer Queen!" 



FRANCIS TO NAOMI. 

Naomi, Naomi, my magnet and Star, 
The fields of old Ulster are silent and far; 
The Donegal heather has faded from sight, 
The waves of Lock Swilly are moaning to-night; 
Green Erin is shrouded beyond the blue sea— 
I think of Naomi— is she thinking of me? 

Naomi, Naomi, my fairest and best, 

'Twas the voice of Jehovah that called to the West; 

I flinched not; I'm wearing the helmet and sword, 

In the might of the Right and the strength of the Lord 

But even the stoutest, when cares overbear, 

Has the need of a woman to cherish and cheer! 



170 Makemieland Memorials 

Naomi, Naomi, from centre to strand, 

I claim for the Master this beautiful land ; 

These Eastern Shore vistas so winsome and broad, 

I'm writing upon them the name of their God; 

But brave though he be and robust in his pride, 

Man needs a pure woman to walk by his side! 

Naomi, Naomi, I feel and confess, 

I'm lonesome at times in this vast wilderness ; 

I trudge the dark swamps, I thread the dim streams, 

Where the red Indian lurks and the wild beast screams; 

I fear not, I shirk not, but I candidly own 

A bachelor wigwam is somber and lone! 

Naomi, when musing at twilight I sank 

Despondent at times by the still Matchatank; 

And here on the Pocomoke weary and worn, 

I've drooped in the furrows like the drought on the corn 

The stars of Rehoboth swing low in their track 

And call for the lassie of fair Accomack ! 

Naomi, I know it — the Master has sent 

His servant predestined to spend and be spent; 

But when I am passing released to the skies, 

I want woman's fingers to close the tired eyes ; 

And when the bowl breaks and the waters divide, 

Then may not your Francis still rest by your side? 

Naomi, I'm hoping — it comes and it looms — 

To plant these fair landscapes with Bethany homes ; 

In sight of my Churches, the angels on guard, 

The laughter of children and the smile of the Lord, 

Like the song in the clusters, like the nest in the vine, 

Shall not such a homestead be your home and mine? 



Makemieland Memorials 171 



NAOMI TO FRANCIS. 

Oh Francis Makemie, you're sudden somewhat! 
My cheeks are like embers — it's fearfully hot; 
There's a flutter on land and a whirl on the seas 
With slight intimations of heart-maladies ! 
You shouldn't have done it — devising your snares 
To trap a young maiden all unawares ! 

Oh Francis Makemie, I never had known 
That Preachers went courting as Francis has done! 
I've heard you when preaching as solemn as death, 
Till all were in tears and were holding our breath; 
And who could have thought it — so earnest, sublime, 
You were thinking of poor little me all the time ! 

Oh Francis Makemie, you've a wonderful way 
Of making young lassies believe what you say! 
And then when you picture the long dreary road, 
Your wilderness cabin and labors for God, 
The noble ambitions, the Heavenly goal, 
You wake up the womanhood deep in my soul ! 

Oh Francis Makemie, shall I own it or not? 

I'm liking you better than ever I thought ! 

Your words are like music that floats on the streams, 

You talk like an angel that visits our dreams; 

The girls of Virginia are tender and true — 

And now what's beleaguered young maiden to do? 

My Francis, the coast-winds thy eulogies speak 

From Ocean's wide waves to the glad Chesapeake; 

It's a poor little self Naomi can bring; 

She feels so unworthy to mate with the King; 

But Papa's so handy, a Justice you see, 

And you'll not be pestered for marriage fee ! 



172 Makemieland Memorials 

EASTERN SHORE TO HER BOYS. 

My boy, by idle fancies, 
By playing wild romances, 
By flirting with the chances, 
Not thus true life advances — 
Not luck but pluck! 

'Tis not by listless dreaming, 
'Tis not by reckless scheming, 
'Tis by each hour redeeming, 
By being and not seeming — 
Not luck but pluck! 

No drifting and carousing, 
No visionary browsing, 
No easy berths espousing, 
No dozing, prosing, drowsing— 
Not luck but pluck ! 

The breezy headlands viewing, 
The upward slopes pursuing, 
The dullard's naps eschewing, 
Alert and up and doing — 

Not luck but pluck ! 

No loud hurrah and bustle; 
With optimistic hustle, 
With brain and brawn and muscle, 
Give time and tide a tussle — 
Not luck but pluck ! 

No wasting days in tattle, 
No chewing cuds with cattle, 
No skulking in the battle, 
But prompt to prove your mettle — 
Not luck but pluck ! 

The polestar never veering, 
These seaside breezes cheering, 
The brave bark onward steering, 
Grit, wit and persevering — 
Not luck but pluck ! 



Makemieland Memorials 173 

Brave Eastern Shore endeavor, 
No waiting on the weather, 
Intent and upward ever, 
My boy, despondent never — 
Not luck but pluck ! 

\ 

Some native bard to love me, 
Some Cicero to move me, 
By these blue skies above thee, 
Up, boy, rise and prove thee ! 
Not luck but pluck! 



MAKEMIE TO PIERCE BRAY. 



It's a pity that we know so little of the original Elders in the 
Makemie Churches. I find the first mention of Pierce Bray on 
the Somerset Records in 1701 — the purchase of his farm. He 
represented Rehoboth in Presbytery in 1720. 

Pierce Bray, Makemie's and Rehoboth's friend, 
Official such as Paul ordained and signalized 
And felt their loving tears upon his neck ; 
I gladden with you in your domicile, 
Which helps to plant the Ruling Eldership 
Upon this shore and on this Continent. 
The Elder's home — yes, build it stout and strong! 
It links with steel the pulpit and the pews, 
The preacher and his flock, and both to God. 
It throws its. incense through the Temple Courts. 

I see the Vineyard budding, 

The Vine is taking root ; 
I smell the future clusters, 

The Calvinistic fruit ; 
I see God's system anchored, 

The Bible flag unfurled, 
The Elder standing solidly 

Upon this Western World ! 



174 Makemieland Memorials 

Pierce Bray, remember when old Abraham 

Had reached the Promised Land and pitched his tent, 

He pitched God's altar too, combining both. 

When came the Covenant child, methinks the first 

Bright thing he noted was that altar-blaze 

Near by the cradle's side. The Elder's home, 

Now pitched upon this later Canaan land, 

Means much ! the Presbyterian home, 

The Presbyterial home, with all its stars, 

Stands large for God and man and all the world! 

Amid perennial verdure, 

The pleasing seaside scenes, 
Shall not the Elder's roof-tree 

Be like the Evergreens — 
A thing of life and beauty 

Whose foliage never fades, 
Where truth unwithering dwelleth 

Beneath the Covenant shades? 

Here on the watch-tower, in the van, Pierce Bray, 
Placed there by voters in this Mother Church, 
I charge you to be blameless as God's steward, 
Well mated, keeping your children faithful, 
Not quick to anger, not in love with wine, 
No bully, no slave to filthy lucre, 
A house adorned with hospitality, 
A lover of good men, and sober, just, 
Temperate, holy, and holding fast the Word ; 
Thus loyal to Rehoboth and to God! 

It is a post of honor, 

The Elder's place and name, 
, God's workman and God's watchman, 

Equipped for crown and palm ; 
Safeguard from ultraism, 

From hobbies of the hour, 
From priestly domination 

And lust for place and power! 



Makemieland Memorials 175 

Pierce Bray, successors to your altar-home, 
I see from many a window down the years 
Lights shining out ! From Presbyterian homes, 
From Presbyterial homes, lights shining out ! 
From all these placid river-banks, bright lights ! 
From all these groves of myrtle and of pine, 
From all these virgin towns and villages, 
From bayside to the seaside, lights shining out ! 
From all these family graveyards here and there, 
The cheerfulness of Christian tombs, bright lights ! 

My friend, look up and onward ! 

A noble cause invites ; 
By every wood and river 

Hang out the signal-lights ! 
Stand bravely by your colors, 

And place them on the heights ; 
On every hill and headland, 

Run up the beacon-lights !► 

Pierce Bray, the Teaching Elders come and go, 
The Ruling Elders stay. Makemie's work 
Will soon be done and he must fade away. 
Makemie's Churches must lean prayerfully 
Upon the Eldership. These the homeguard ; 
These the true and staunch conservators. 
If this endeared and fair Peninsula 
Shall stand erect for Calvin and for Christ, 
These guards must lead. I leave my Bishopric 
To good Pierce Bray and all the God-ordained. 

His Elders stood by Moses 

Along the desert sand; 
God send ideal Elders 

To all Makemieland ! 
May cloud and fiery pillar 

Attend them in the way, 
Still following in the footsteps 

Of faithful Elder Bray! 



ij6 Makemieland Memorials 

Pierce Bray, come stand with me by Pocomoke. 
Yonder the Indian's periangua glides; 
Yonder the Negro fishes for the shad; 
Here two white-men think and weigh and hope. 
The Pauline System must be made secure 
And fastened deep into this Western soil — 
An Evergreen among the Evergreens. 
Then build the Elder's home erect and fair 
Upon the Eastern Shore and every Shore. 
I see a Shaft some day on Holden's Creek! 

The present and the future 

Are linked in God's Decrees, 
The Apostolic Elder 

Among the harmonies; 
And may these seaside breezes 

The seedtruths widely waft — 
An Eldership of granite 

Like that Makemie shaft! 



MOTHER'S DAY. 



Winsome Mothers of Rehoboth, 

We salute you all the way 
From the old Colonial Mothers 

To the Mothers of to-day; 
Like the fragrance of the myrtle, 

They are shedding gladness yet, 
Like the roses and the lilies 

And the songs of Somerset. 

These dear Temple Courts have seen them, 

Fair maternal pioneers, 
Bowing here in adoration 

Through the past two hundred years ; 
Like the sunshine on the meadows, 

Like the blossoms by the brook, 
Warm affections deeply flowing 

Like the tides of Pocomoke. 



Makemieland Memorials 177 

Far on back the Indian Mothers, 

In the ages far away, 
From the dusky forest wigwams 

Watched their little ones at play; 
Babies lashed upon their shoulders, 

Young papooses by their side 
And perhaps the sturdy first-born 

Bringing home his Indian bride. 

Here and there the Quaker Mothers, 

Garbed in plain and simple dress, 
Rocked their meek-eyed little Mystics 

In the lonely. wilderness; 
'Thee and Thou," those Quaker babies 

Never once a pet-word heard, 
And for them no cradle music 

Save the song of woodland bird. 

Oh the dear old-fashioned Mothers 

Kings and Everudens and Brays, 
Whites and Whittingtons and Beauchamps, 

Browns, Galbraiths and Stevenses ; 
Revells, Elzeys, Dents and Drydens, 

Fentons, Erkines, Covingtons ; 
Horseys, Venables and Bostons, 

Winders, Howards, Stevensons. 

Many of the names have vanished 

As the morning mists depart ; 
Mothers once with fondled children 

Pressed upon maternal heart; 
In the vernal days departed, 

Mother's soul and Mother's eyes — 
Here they raised their warm petitions, 

Here they sung their lullabies. 

Ah the passing of the Mothers 

Like the stars at break of day; 
Called up higher from our cradles, 

Heaven waiting such as they; 



178 Makemieland Memorials 

And the skies are bending closer 
As they spread their wings and rise, 

There beside the Crystal River, 
Motherhood in Paradise! 

Holds this world a sight more lovely, 

Has our earth supremer charms 
Than a beautiful young Mother 

With her first-born in her arms? 
So we all once sweetly nestled, 

To our Mother's bosom pressed, 
There enveloped in caresses, 

Fondled on that faithful breast. 

So the Mothers, tender Mothers 

In their beauty linger yet, 
Gilding all the towns and hamlets 

And the farms of Somerset; 
And the Churches smile and bless them, 

While their presence lifts and cheers 
All the pews and all the pulpits 

With the unction of their prayers. 

And the darling old Grandmothers, 

Some beneath the grassy tombs, 
Some, with tenderness unfading, 

Still adorning earthly homes ; 
And the Mother-heart immortal, 

Past and present interwove, 
Idolizing children's children 

With almost a double love. 

Blessed Mothers, 'precious Mothers, 

Richest jewels God has given, 
Guarding, guiding up from childhood, 

Pointing winsomely to Heaven ; 
May we follow in their footsteps, 

Treading close the Heavenly way, 
Worthy of the angel Mothers 

Of the past and of to-day 1 



Makemieland Memorials 179 

Old Rehoboth this glad morning 

Gathers to her heart of hearts 
All the Mothers and Grandmothers 

Fondly in her Temple Courts; 
Holy spirits long ascended 

Seem above the scene to brood, 
Still invoking benedictions 

On Rehoboth's Motherhood! 



MOSQUITO ISMS. 



A Blue Monday Recreation. 

Big Mosquito nipped my forehead, scientific, fair and square ; 
Only pure hallucination, Boston Priestess would declare; 
Matter never in existence and no sort of evil creeturs, 
No nothing but mentality, no forehead and no skeeters ; 
No insect hordes infesting with their venimous intrusion — 
Ergo, all this buzz and biting but phantasmal, sheer illusion ! 

Yet I make my affidavit — there's the lump and there's the bump ; 
Otherwise I'm an inpostor or the veriest sort of gump ; 
But I stand on my veracity — there's that irritating patch, 
And that tantalizing itching that I've got to die or scratch; 
And if famous Mrs. Eddy thinks Mosquitodom a joke, 
We would love to have her test it on the classic Pocomoke ! 

All your skeeter bars abolish, 'own with all your foolish screens ; 
Put aside your smokes and smothers and forswear your human 

means ; 
For all that's necessary in the good old summer time, 
Is to think there are no skeeters, not in all this skeeter clime ; 
Don't you try to brush them off, don't you fidget, don't you 

twitch ; 
Don't you use your finger nails for forsooth it doesn't itch ! 



i8o Makemieland Memorials 

my Muse, just wait a moment, for I've got to scratch awhile; 
How I wish that Mrs. Eddy that sensation could beguile ; 

I'm convinced, she too, would scratch, all her finger nails in focus. 
Notwithstanding all the glamour of her Christian hocuspocus ; 
For it itches, itches, itches, with all sorts of aggravation, 
Yes, in spite of all the antics of occult imagination ! 

On and on from Noah's deluge has the pesky old mosquito 
Been bedeviling human skins, yes, ard their religion ditto! 
If the skeeter is not real, if the skeeter is no evil, 

1 may soon admit the premise that neither is there any devil ; 
Surely both of them exhibit something of the same persistence — 
Both are mighty hard to conjure out. of our mundane existence! 

Fact is, through all Mosquito time, I am just about as ready 
To believe there is no Boston, that there is no Mrs, Eddy; 
That she, too, and all her buzzing are only dim illusions, 
Though many splendid people share her spiritual confusions ; 
But while there still are wiggle-tails and victims still to catch, 
I just must believe in skeeters and ditto in Old Scratch! 



VOYAGE ON THE POCOMOKE; WITH HOME 
MISSION MAGNATES. 

Gliding down the placid river, 
Sparkling on its way forever, 
With the Springtime in the air, 
Tides all right and breezes fair, 
Onward launch Alberta floats, 
Queen to-day of river boats ; 
While the tints of bursting buds 
Gladden all the waking woods, 
And the sunshine like a dream 
Shimmers on the pensive stream ; 
So our hearts with gladness glow, 
Fragrant with the Long Ago — 
Gliding down the dreamy river. 



Makemieland Memorials 181 

Musings of John Smith awoke, 
First white man on Pocomoke, 
Ready hand to write or fight, 
Old Virginia's knightliest knight; 
Venturous keel on mapless waves, 
Welcomed by the Indian braves, 
Days romantic, distant date, 
Far, far back in Sixteen-Eight. 
Then in Sixteen-Thirty-five, 
Bitter foemen meet and strive, 
Clayborne and Lord Baltimore 
Dye the little stream with gore, 
When the Pinnace Longtail met 
St. Helen and St Margaret; 
Indians marvel at the sight, 
America's first naval fight. 
Thus we dream as on we go, 
Of the hazy Long Ago — 
Gliding down the classic river. 

So float on our happy group 
Thinking of Makemie's sloop, 
Sloop Tabitha as she swings 
Round the curves with seagull wings, 
Flying in that early day 
On her Missionary way, 
Sowing in the glad sunbeams 
Gospel seed along these streams, 
Settling 'mid the vistas wild 
Young Rehoboth his first child — 
She the # Mother yet to be 
Of a boundless progeny 
Like the sands by yonder sea ; 
Thus the Past its sweets exhaled, 
Sailing where Makemie sailed — 
Gliding down the ancient river. 

Yonder the old Temple looms, 
There amid the mouldering tombs — 
Modest, gracious Luminary, 
Venerable old Sanctuary ! 



182 Makemteland Memorials 

Silently we pass the door, 
Breathe the balms of days of yore, 
Treading where the Fathers trod, 
Thinking of our Fathers' God, 
There we sung and there we prayed 
Where our Creed was first displayed; 
It was well, yes it was well 
There upon that sacred hill 
That our Mission Chief should stand 
And lead our prayers for all the land, 
Where to all this Western world 
The Mission flag was first unfurled. 
God bless our Thompson and his wife, 
A noble and illustrious fife. 
Henceforth upon our honored Guest 
Rehoboth's benedictions rest ! 
On him Makemie's mantle fall, 
Heroic son of Donegal ! 
Like sloop Tabitha at full tide, 
May C. L. Thompson and his bride, 
Encounter storm and quicksand never — 
Gliding down life's mystic river ! 

'Twas well ere yet our Guests should leave 
That they should stand by Stevens' grave, 
And think of that long buried hand 
Which brought our Founder to this land; 
Big-hearted writer of the Call 
Which won the seer of Donegal. 
Old Cellar and the old flat Tomb, 
Farm named Rehoboth, There is Room, 
First patented to bloom and live, 
Far back in Sixteen-Sixty-five; 
Room for all and worship free, 
Whoever should the exile be; 
Room, yes room; all sects could come 
And preach beside his home and tomb. 
Here where our Founder reached this land, 
'Twas well our Mission Chief should stand, 
And look abroad and gaze afar 
And gather inspiration here; 



Makemieland Memorials 183 

Where first the Mission Clarion spoke 
Along the listening Pocomoke, 
To go on ringing — on forever — 
The great Evangelistic river! 

I 
Ho, ye skeptics, ye should see 

The Mission Chiefs agility, 

Miraculous facility, 

August adaptibility, 

And wonderful humility; 

And how this man of eloquence 

Could circumvent that mean barbed fence ; 

Or rather how His Eminence 

Just underwent that barbarous fence, 

How His Reverence looked around, 

Threw himself upon the ground, 

Rolled and rolled, our D D guide, 

Till out upon the other side, 

Never was there antic droller, 

This ne-plus-ultra Patent Roller ! 

Did Stevens ever dream of old, 

Had any Prophet e'er foretold, 

How some great-big Ecclesiastic 

Could perpetuate such deed fantastic, 

And by such occult ravishments 

Outwit that devilish old fence ! 

It ill besets the Mission Cause, 

If some huge barrier interpose, 

Then I'm sure we needn't wonder 

If our Thompson just rolls under, 

And tricks old Satan far and wide 

And looms upon the other side — 

Gliding up the favoring river ! 

Climax coming, heat the pot ; 
Oysters steaming piping-hot ! 
So the launch Alberta flies, 
'Mid the fumes of Paradise; 
Sun in the Meridian, 
Palates Presbyterian ; 



184 Makemieland Memorials 

Preacher's wife and preacher's daughter 
Hungry as two shads in water; 
Carey, Polk and both the Preachers, 
Going for those bi\alve creatures; 
Appetites as orthodox 
As that of Calvin or John Knox ! 
Great Home Mission Enterprise 
And cooking oysters harmonize — 
Glad to go on thus forever, 
Feasting on the happy river ! 

Moral : If by any chance 

You may fail to jump the fence; 

If in reaching yonder goal, 

Barbs may tear your pants or soul, 

Then outwit Old Nick, by thunder, 

Humbly bow and just roll under! 

Men revolving with the times 

Lik'e the rumble of my rhymes, 

Prompt to plan and prompt to act, 

Like our Thompson's barbed-wire tact, 

Soon may see the dangers passed 

And luxuriate at last; 

Humble now but blessed forever, 

Feasting by the Crystal River! 



GRAND EPIC— REDEMPTION OF LOVER'S LANE. 



Canto I. — Cupid and the Nose. 

And what should Lover's Lane be? 

A place of pleasing things,' 
A nesting nook for fairies 

And flash of Cupid's wings ; 
A dream of grace and beauty, 

Of birds and buzzing bees, 
The spell of sylvan splendors 

And green-fringed cypresses. 



Makemieland Memorials 185 

We took a stroll at sunset, 

The azure in the sky; 
The hour for genial fancies 

And sweet expectancy; 
For what should Lover's Lane be? 

A spot for rarest dreams, 
Romantic and poetic, 

And charm of woodland streams. 

We took a stroll at sunset, 

My own best girl and I — 
What horrid nightmare seizes? 

What stench bombards the sky? 
Great piles of stuff outrageous, 

Discarded underclo's — 
My lass is red with blushes — 

Her fingers grip her nose ! 

All sorts of hideous rubbish, 

Old shoes and ladies' rats, 
Tin cans and broken dishes 

And corpses of dead cats ; 
A charnel-house of squalor, 

So vile that in dismay 
The poor, sick turkey buzzards 

Disgusted turn away! 

Outside the holy City 

The Jewish filth was hid; 
They called the place Gehenna — 

Don't wonder that they did ; 
For we parade our dump-heaps 

Repulsive to the view, 
And Pocomoke's proud city 

Has her Gehenna too ! 

And Lover's Lane they call it, 

A sacrilege of names, 
Now fit for nothing, nothing. 

Except Gehenna's flames; 



1 86 Makemieland Memorials 

Arouse, ye Civic Leaguers, 

Ye harbingers of taste,' 
Clean out this Augean Stable, 

Disgracing and disgraced ! 

It stands, a foul dishonor, 

A reeking skeleton, 
Defacing our fine causeway, 

Fairest entrance to the town; 
The beautiful implores you — 

Those flowering shrubs and trees, 
Magnolia blooms and maples, 

And grand old cypresses ! 

I can't conceive the courtin' 

That's possible out there — 
Your sweetheart nauseated 

And nostrils in despair ! 
For while you sware your sweetest 

In poetry or prose, 
What on earth can lassie do 

But just to hold her nose! 

Canto II. — Popping Catastrophes. 

Once upon a time Philander, 

Bent on matrimonial talk, 
Intercepted fair Amander 

And they started for a walk ; 
Tempest raging in his bosom, 

Cyclone whirling in his brain, 
And the dogwood was in blossom 

And they broke for Lover's Lane. 

Then the spoony young Philander 

Had his fine strategic plan 
Just exactly how to land her. 

By all skill and grit of man; 
Romance royal was a-booming, 

Ardent love enthused the twain — 
All the vernal splendors blooming 

In the realms of Lover's Lane. 



Makemieland Memorials 187 

Now the amourous Philander 

Had enlisted all his nerve, 
While the happy pair meander 

Round about the beauteous curve; 
"Wilt thou, darling sweet Amander, 

Be my own betrothed to-day?" 
Sprang the maid, ere he could hinder, 

Full ten cubits clear away! 

Lo, a mass of stuff amorphous, 

Effervescent near their track, 
And, as rancid as a porpoise; 

Diabolic bric-a-brac; 
Had she seen some river varmint? 

Had some anaconda done it? 
No — oh no — some inner garment, 

With Amander's name upon it! 

In due time chagrined Philander 

Pacifies her as they wend 
And perform a gerrymander 

Round about another bend; 
"Wilt thou be my own, my dearest?" 

Thus he pops it over again — 
"Here amid the brightest, fairest 

Paradise of Lover's Lane?" 

Lo, another pile of horrors 

And demoniac bric-a-brac, 
And our poor Philander's sorrows 

Double full upon his track; 
She had seen her corset cover 

Festering there in sheer decay — 
Suddenly she toppled over, 

Gasped and fainted dead away! 

Then the microbes see their chances, 

Rise and swarm about the two ; 
Old Bacillus spawns and dances 

Up and down the Avenue; 



1 88 Makemieland Memorials 

Thick as fog the rank contageon 

Round and round the couple squirms, 

And it fills the two's religion 
All chock-full of devil germs! 

Needn't wonder if Philander 

Now explodes some cuss words dire. 
Wishing those who aid and pander 

Were upon this funeral pyre; 
Cremating all the perpetrators 

With these eye-sores of creation, 
Scorching every soul that caters 

To this vile abomination! 

Needn't marvel if the maiden 

With the fever in each vein, 
With the typhoid microbes laden, 

Born and bred in Lover's Lane, 
Was disgusted with the dump heaps, 

Sickened with the day's fatigue, 
Burning all the home-made rubbish — 

Joins full tilt the Civic League! 

Then our Lover's Lane beguiling, 

Clothes itself in rich array, 
Every fine old cypress smiling 

On the saints who pass that way; 
New-born taste, refreshed, enlightened 

Every gratified by by-stander, 
And the spell of beauty brightens 

Fair Amander and Philander! 

Bravo! all the City Fathers, 

Proudly faithful to their trust- 
Peace of mind about them gathers 

And the slumbers of the just; 
Civic dreams embalmed in duty, 

Lover's Lane henceforth their pride, 
Meditations gemmed with beauty — 

And the Town electrified! 



Makemieland Memorials 189 

Canto III. — Microbes in Council. 

Great excitement through their dens — 

The microbes in histeria, 
A fhitteration far and wide — 

Bacilli and bacteria ; 
For they'd heard the Civic League 

Was after Civic Evils, 
Intent to break the fearful reign 

Of all these busy devils. 

And so the Doctor's mystic bugs, 

Hygeia's modern hobbies, 
Had called a hasty Conference 

Of all these little boobies ; 
Beneath a reeking garbage heap, 

They come with hurried greeting, 
From every backyard in the burg — 

A great microbe mass-meeting. 

And Arch-Bacterius took the Chair, 

And shook his little gavel, 
The boss-microbe of Lover's Lane, 

The leading pesky devil ; 
"We hear it told," the Chairman said, 

"That awful Mrs. Emma 
Is forcing all our frisky tribes 

Into a dire dilemma. 

"Just get these women started out 

On any such intention, 
They're mighty apt in time to beat 

A Woman's-Rights Convention, 
If once their pretty heads are set 

To make this thing effective, 
In tracing us they will excel 

A Pinkerton detective." 

Then Arch-Bacillus took the floor, 

In pest-hole generated, 
And none more stealthy or more sly, 



190 Makemieland Memorials 

And thus the bug orated: 
"Worse still; our case is desperate; 

Our counsels must not tarry; 
They've made their chief microbic scout 

Illustrious Mrs. Carrie. 

"So long and strong she's ruled the ranch, 

And bossed her hen-pecked Billy, 
That now she means to have her way, 

And boss us poor bacilli; 
I have a plan I think will work 

And sure protection get us;. 
We'll turn ourselves to polliwogs 

And then she'll feed and pet us ! 

"Enthroned as tadpoles in her tank, 

The conquest will be easy; 
We'll soon infect her victim Bill, 

And Allen and Louisy; 
And then we'll hold an honored place 

In Pocomoky City, 
And bid defiance out and out 

To that old Germ-Committee." 

Another little magnate said — 

"Why should this thing be bruited? 
"Why should our honorable guild 

Be scorned and persecuted? 
The Doctors have to have their fads, 

Some theoretic pother; 
Why not we microbes fill the bill, 

As well as any other !" 

Another little tricky scamp 

His cunning ventilated : 
"Society, with microbes gone, 

Would soon be decimated; 
For how about the microbes, sir, 

That get into religion 
And permeate the piety 

Within the dancing region! 



Makemieland Memorials 191 

"And how about the microbes, too, 

Around the good card-tables, 
Where Christians meet to worship God 

Amid the social Babels? 
And how about the microbes fair, 

Theatre saints infesting? 
Also the moving-picture shows 

Church-services contesting? 

"For there are moral microbes, sir, 

And microbes irreligious, 
And they all have their dump-heaps, too, 

And rubbish piles pernicious; 
And our old Arch-Bacterius, 

And our Arch-Bacillus 
Will give you all a tussle yet 

Before you folks can kill us !" 

And thus they wiggled on and on, 

Abusing those good women, 
And laid their plans for more campaigns, 

Each dirty little demon; 
They then adjourned with loud acclaim — 

"Old Lover's Lane forever !" 
Intent to breed new fever germs 

Down by the classic river. 

With all their vast omnipotence 

By big Physicians stated, 
And all the ills beneath the sun 

By microbes propagated, 
We don't believe, we won't believe 

That beautiful Aquarium 
Will ever by their threats become 

A bad old Microbarium ! 

Canto IV. — Grand Finale. 

Consternation in Microbia, 

Denizens in awful plight, 
Brainstorms dire and hydrophobia, 

Whole phalanxes in full flight ; 



192 Makemieland Memorials 

Doctors and apothecaries 
Losing now their avocation, 

Women, angels and the fairies 
Joined in holy jubilation! 



DE WEDDIN'. 



De weddin' been appinted, 

De weddin' must go on — 
De sweetest little Lady 

In all dis Charleston town; 
In dese ole arms I'd hugged her 

Wid many a risin' sun, 

Miss May a Hebbenly angel 

If ebber dere was one ! 

Oh me, my heart is^breakin', 

I wish I'd died befo'; 
In all dis world ob weepin', 
I'll see her likes no mo' ! 

De guns in Charleston harbor 

Broke loose like imps ob hell; 
De valleys ancf de Hillsides 

Blaze wid de shot and shell ; 
And ebbery thing was quakin' 

As ef 'twas Judgment Day; 
Dere by de bridegroom smilin' 

Stood little Lady May. 

Oh me, my heart is breakin', 
I wish I'd died befo'; 

In all dis world ob weepin', 
I'll see her likes no mo' ! 

De mean ole war was ragin', 

De thunders louder grow ; 
Dat darlin' little Lady, 

She nebber seemed to know ; 
De calm" was on her forehead 

De lilies in her hair; 
De bridegroom made de promise, 

De preacher turned to her. 



Makemieland Memorials 193 

Oh me, my heart is breakin', 

I wish I'd died befo'; 
In all dis world ob weepin', 

I'll see her likes no mo' ! 

De bridegroom made de promise, 

De preacher turned to her; 
She quivered, gasped, he caught her; 

De gallant Cavalier ; 
De ball had pierced her bosom; 

She said, ''Good man, go on;" 
"Till death?" "I will," she whispered, 

And den my chile was gone ! 

Oh me, my heart is breakin', 

I wish I'd died befo'; 
In all dis world ob weepin', 

I'll see her likes no mo' ! 

Black Mammy's heart is breakin', 

My precious chile is dead; 
I wish the fightin' devils 

Had murdered me instead; 
She lubbed her ole Black Mammy, 

I lubbed my angel May; 
For cullud folks and white folks, 

It was a sad ole day ! 

Oh me, my heart is breakin', 

I wish I'd died befo'; 
In all dis world ob weepin', 

I'll see her likes no mo' ! 



SHAD ! ! 

Pocomoke Shad — what beauties, what beauties ! 

Shimmering in silver like moonlight on snow; 
Never a bride in splendor excelled her — 

Bride of the river with jewels of roe; 
Diamonds of roe, all fresh from the floods, 
Exquisite viands and fit for the Gods ! 



194 Makemieland Memorials 

Pocomoke boats afloat on the waters, 
Man with the paddle and man with the net; 

Hiddekel, Pison, Euphrates and Gibon 

In these curves and these stretches fair rivals have met; 

Banks all in blossom and Nature all glad, 

Green of the Tropics and nests of the shad. 

Thrills in the net and the fisherman feels it, 

Thrills in the boat and thrills in the air; 
Dash and a jerk and a swirl in the waters, 

Floods with a sunburst and the trophy is there! 
Captors ecstatic and jolly and proud — 
Piece of a rainbow fresh from the cloud! 

Mackerel are good and trout of the mountain, 
Blue fish are fine and herring are prime; 

White fish of the lakes and the great Western tarpon- 
Give me my Pocomoke shad every time; 

How the rapt Muses of Greece would soar, 

Had they known of these dainties of the Eastern Shore! 

Beautiful shad, witlh her roe-rolls rounded, 

Hand her to one of the old darkie cooks — 
Better than all the chefs in creation, 

Finer than all that is told in the books ; 
Nectar was fair and ambrosia not bad — 
Jupiter Tonans knew nothing of shad! 



OLYMPUS AND EDEN. 

When youthful Eastern Shore like Venus rose, 
All fresh and fair and fragrant from the waves, 
Jove hailed this more than Cytherean Queen, 
And sent Swift-Footed Mercury to the Coast 
To call the Ocean-born, the Beautiful, 
To take her place among the Goddesses 
And sit beside him on Olympian heights, 
The Feast was on, Apollo held his lyre t 
The nectar and ambrosia filled the air, 
The graces came in groups, the Muses sang : — 



Makemieland Memorials 195 

"Amid the seaboard breezes, 

Along the mystic strand, 
The realms of dim Atlantic 

Far in the Western Land, 
Where Sol from boundless surges 

Illuminates the morn, 
There in the Land of Fables 

Another Queen is born !" 

All Greece was waiting for new burst of song; 
Apollo and the Sacred Nine had sent 
Poetic dreams to all the dreaming Trards, 
To Homer, Sappho and Theocritus 
And all the band, to have their harps in tune. 
But yonder comes the Fleet- Winged all alone 
And this strange message bears — "I saw her there, 
Just from the foam, in beauty, vision rare — 
The Eastern Shore, the virgin seaside maid 
And bashfully these gentle words she sendj : — 

" T cannot leave my pine-woods, 

My shady holly groves, 
My bowers of blooming laurel, 

My myrtle and my coves ; 
To every God and Goddess 

I waft a sister's kiss, 
But you, O fair Olympus, 

Had never clime like this !' " 

At first Jove frowned and grasped his thunderbolt, 
Then laid it down, a smile upon his face. 
"I'll humor this Divinity," he said ; 
"Now for an age or two I've had no Pet; 
You ancient Gods and Goddesses grow stale ; 
All this is new, unique ; thrones tempt her not ; 
She thinks her woods and streams Elysium ! 
So. wreathe her brow with her own Evergreens ; 
Ye Graces, weave four crowns — each season one !" 
And then the Muses with new ardor sang : — 



196 Makemieland Memorials 

■''The Thunderer is smiling ! 

This new-crowned Favorite 
May nestle in her forests 

Like woodland violet ; 
The Thunderer is smiling ! 

He melts beneath her charms 
And softens into zephyrs 

Her loudest thunder-storms !" 

The Graces hastened lithely to their task: 
For Springtime diadem, where Spring birds sing, 
The robin, bluebird and the oriole ; 
Where merry frogs attune their choruses; 
Where shad and herring fatten for the feast; 
Where laughing school-girls, happy as the wrens, 
Skip on their way like fairies 'neath the trees ; 
There Jove's fair Artists pluck the laurel branch, 
Now green and pink with variegated bloom, 
And weave them deftly for the Verual Crown. 

They crown her. yes they crown her, 

The blushing Eastern Shore, 
And never richer chaplet 

Fair Goddess ever more ; 
The life is in her pulses, 

The tints are in hei cheek, 
From pensive Synapuxent 

To glistening Chesapeake ! 

Now Summer's come and Jove the signal gives, 
And prompt the Graces hurry to the pines, 
Romantic, genial, contemplative pines. 
Bordered by them, the waving wheat and corn; 
Bordered by them, the orchards red with fruits ; 
Bordered by them, strawberries and tomatoes; 
Bordered by them, potatoes and huckleberries ; 
And there the Graces gather for her brow 
The fringe-like needles, rarest diadem. 



Makemieland Memorials 197 

They crown her, fondly crown her, 

The Land of balmy Pine, 
The Land of milk and honey, 

Of Thyme and Eglantine; 
The Land of Noble Fathers, 

And ozone on the air ; 
The Land of model Mothers 

And courtships everywhere ! 

Cool Autumn's here and Jove has not forgot; 
The Harvest Home is sung and barns are full, 
The hearts are glad and oysters on the dish, 
And canvas-backs and diamond-backs all ripe ; 
'Tis one great, wholesouled Thanksgiving Day ; 
And eating is an art divine down there, 
And kitchens there are royal Palaces 
And tables beat Olympas out of sight. 
Now Graces bring the myrtle, full of love, 
And twine its berries in, and rich perfumes. 

They crown her, thus they crown her, 

And never Grecian verse 
Has sung and celebrated 

Such marriages as hers. 
The welding of close neighbors, 

The old Colonial blood, 
The pride of Eastern Shoremen 

In mystic brotherhood ! 

And now mild Winter came and brought its pause — 

With books and poesy and song and home. 

Wide looms the splendor of the Evergreens; 

At Christmastide look through your windows forth 

And see no blight or gloom on all the world ! 

Stroll through the woods— 'twill rival Summertime ! 

Sit by warm stoves and watch the dazzling snow 

Gleam white on verdant boughs. The Graces pluck 

The prize of holly flamed with red 

And weave glad Winter's bright unwithering crown. 



198 Makemieland Memorials 

We hear the Muses singing: — 

"Stand up, thou peerless Queen; 
Array the Ocean Goddess 

In everliving green ; 
Let all her lovers love her, 

Let all her children praise — 
The winsome Land of Evergreens, 

The Sweetheart of the Bays !" 



MAKEMIE ON HIS EAR! 

Were our brave Makemie living, I am sure there' d be a breeze, 
And a sound of something* stirring in the live mulberry trees, 
And he'd thunder through these counties — "Up and at it ! go to 

work ! 
Get a move and hustle on you — Presbyterians must'nt shirk! 

"Here your Ship of Zion started, borne along with favoring gales, 
With the sunlight on her pennons, with the coast-winds in her 

sails ; 
And most gallantly she floated and she ever onward bore, 
For the God of Knox had brought her to the good old Eastern 

Shore. 
"What's the matter with the pilots and the mariners on board? 
What's the matter with your Bibles and the altars of the Lord? 
Sure, somebody's been unwary and somebody's to be blamed — 
Methodism has outstripped you and you ought to be ashamed! 

"What's the trouble up at Berlin — Buckingham of virgin gold 
On "the road along the seaside' in the shining days of old; 
Where your Tennent and your Rankin ploughed and sowed his- 
toric ground, 
Why the languor and the slumber in the vineyards all around? 

"What's the matter with my workmen in my good Wicomico — 
Presbyterians hardly stronger than a hundred years ago; 
Only Church in all that region and the ancient ardor fled, 
Not an outpost in the county and my Rockawalkin dead ! 



Makemieland Memorials 199 

"What's the matter, ye Snow-Hillers ; where's the fervor of your 

youth — 
With your boast of your Makemie and Memorial Church 

forsooth ! 
Where's the Adam Spence devotion and the olden chivalry? 
Zeal and vim and love and duty— these alone prove pedigree ! 

"What's the matter with Pitts Creek? where the fragrance, where 

the bloom, 
In the Church of Anne Makemie and of Sam McMaster's home? 
Two battalions, town and country, well equipped in everything, 
And you ought to double-team it in the service of the King ! 

"What's the matter with Monokin, once a green and fruitful tree, 
Foliage punctured by a microbe called respectability; 
Where's the old aggressive get-up? where's the Calvinistic pride? 
Where the missions? where the chapels in the "Necks" on every 
side? 

"What's the matter at Rehoboth? eldest daughter of the fold; 
Pastor crazy on Makemie, cranky on the days of old ; 
Why the drooping and the mildew ? where I came to regions wild, 
Where I lived and loved and labored for my first and favorite 
child! 

"These the fields and these the Churches which erect and brave 

should stand, 
Bulwarks strong, enthusiastic, and ensamples to the land ; 
Yet I see no bold advances, no new missions ploughed and sown. 
But instead with banners trailing just content to hold your own! 

"Yonder where the sheen and splendor broad above the Chesa- 
peake, 

Where the dreams are ebbing, flowing, like the tides of Holden's 
Creek, 

There you've built enduring granite to perpetuate my fame, 

But I tell of grander chaplets you may wreathe about my name ! 

"Build your Churches into beauty, build me love and build me 

zeal, 
Build the spirit of the fathers where you work and where you 

kneel ; 



200 Makemieland Memorials 

Build me Missionary chapels — push and pluck and brave intent ; 
Thus you best will crown Makemie, these his noblest Monument ! 

"Up and press the Gospel conquests, and the goals your sires 

foresaw ; 
Presbyterians should have captured this entire Peninsula ! 
Calvin cannot stand for weaklings ; wake and face the waiting 

dawn ; 
Buckle on Makemie's armor — sword of the Lord and Gideon!" 



IN THE MIRROR. 
Sunday Morn, Aug. 15th. 1910. 

Silently the pensive river 

Goes on dreaming all the way. 
Not a ripple on its bosom, 

Holy calm of Sabbath Day; 
Onward to the Ancient Temple, 

Like the seabirds on we glide, 
Watching in the m'irror'd waters 

Shadows in the tide. 

And the green primeval forests 

With their grand memorial trees, 
Many a glossy-leaved magnolia 

And the pines and cypresses, 
Fringed along the vine-clad borders 

By the quiet riverside, 
Drop their photographs phantasmal, 

Shadows in the tide. 

And as there we float among them. 

Breathing fancies rare and fair, 
Other shadows seem to gather 

And to gently settle there, 
Men and deeds of other Summers, 

Those who lived and wrought and died, 
Leaving on life's rapid currents 

Shadows in the tide. 



Makemieland Memorials 201 

And they brought across the billows 

Hand of hero, heart of oak, 
And they planted seeds of freedom 

On historic Pocomoke; 
Rights of conscience, praise unfettered, 

God alone to rule and guide, 
Vast hereditary glories. 

Shadows in the tide. 

See that patch of floral splendors. 

White and pink and golden hue, 
Gardens of the river Naiads 

Sparkling in their beads of dew; 
And, beneath them, chaste reflections, 

Purified and glorified, 
Blossoming in new resplendence, 

Shadows in the tide. 

Other gardens rise before us, 

Blooms perennially to last, 
Matrons, maids and rosy lassies, 

Smiling from the twilight past ; 
Once they graced the hills and valleys, 

Leaving spells that still abide, 
And great argosies of beauty, 

Shadows in the tide. 

Yonder stands a thoughtful mansion, 

Telling of Colonial days, 
Venerable with plaintive legends, 

Resting in its morning haze; 
And a graveyard nestles by it, 

Dead and living side by side, 
Home and tombstones and traditions — 

Shadows in the tide. 

And to us there come the portraits, 

Many a circle, many a home, 
Relics of the times romantic, 

Many a smile and many a bloom ; 



202 MAKEMIELAND MEMORIALS 

And the graveyards — Oh so near it — 
Father, mother, sweetheart, bride, 

Pictured on life's mystic river — 
Shadows in the tide. 

And the years keep flowing onward, 

Like the river's undertow, 
And there come to us old dreamers 

Mirror' d loves of Long Ago, 
Like the wreaths of pine and myrtle, 

Rarefied and beautified, 
Jewels of the days departed, 

Shadows in the tide. 

Blue the skies that arch above us, 

Pure the sunbeams on our way, 
And God's peace upon the landscapes, 

Holy calm of Sabbath Day; 
And the Old Church waits our coming, 

With a Mother's love and pride, 
And the blessings of the fathers — 

Auroras in the tide ! 



AT EVENING TIME. 

I stand with Paul the Aged, 

And face the smiling tomb; 
I see no lowering shadows, 

I see no gathering gloom; 
There's beauty on the landscape, 

There's gladness in the sky; 
I throw the challenge down — O grave, 

Where is thy victory ! 

I stand with our Apostle, 
And in his triumph share — 

The shores of time receding, 
Eternity draws near ; 



Makemieland Memorials 203 

I see the open portals, 

I hear the angels sing; 
Unmoved I fling the gauntlet down — 

O death, where is thy sting ! 

I stand with Paul the Victor 

And gladly spread my wings ; 
I tread the bright Third Heavens 

And witness wondrous things; 
I trust the Great Atonement, 

The Lamb that once was slain, 
With him, for me to live is Christ, 

For me to die is gain! 

I stand with Paul the Aged; 

The curse has spent its force; 
I've fought the fight, I've kept the faith, 

I'm finishing my course; 
I know that I am pardoned; 

No doubts or fears oppress ; 
Henceforth I see laid up for me 

The crown of righteousness ! 

I stand with Christ, the Saviour, 

My spirit almost home; 
I wave my hand to loved ones. 

Now beckoning me to come; 
Ere long the tombs shall open 

Like bursting buds in Spring, 
O grave, where is thy victory, 

O death, where is thy sting! 



204 Makemieland Memorials 



MARYLAND AVIATOR. 

While boosting the charms of the land of our birth 
The fair Eden Shore and her fame and her wort'h, 
Whatever the strain and exalted the chord, 
Whatever the chorus of singer and bard, 
There's a break in the song and a fault in the key 
Till some poet sings our gentle T. B. 

The Eastern Shore Counties are awfully proud, 

Colonial veins full of richest of blood, 

Old family streaks in the purest of lines, 

Of indigo blue and as straight as the pines, 

But on from the Flood comes the sure pedigree 

Of the theme of my song with 'his initials T. B. 

The papers are speckled with the letters T. R. 

A hustler in peace and a mascot in war, 

All he does, all he says they lustily laud 

And at his sky-flights they clap and applaud, 

But never a hero on the land or the sea 

More at home in the skies than our native T. B. 

The Wrights and the Zeppelins grandly aspire 
The earth to abandon and mount high and higher, 
The chariot of Phoebus outstrip if they're able 
And beat in their antics the builders of Babel, 
But none of their soarings so far and so free 
As the pinions well-poised of our graceful T. B. 

Far back when a youngster I watched him ascend 
And envied the swoop of the wings of our friend, 
And wished that like him I could circle on high 
And mingle at will with the blue of the sky, 
A harmless old fellow and example to me — 
For he minds 'his own business, the guileless T. B. 



Makemieland Memorials 205 

And long ere the Doctors were venting their flings 

At microbes, bacteria and germs and such things, 

Our friend, sanitary, with diligent care, 

Was clearing the landscapes and cleansing the air; 

No rare antiseptic that ever you see 

More certain to do it than Doctor T. B. 

I saw the old fellow along with his spouse, 

Some scent in the backyard or smell in the house, 

Alight on the chimney with reverent face 

And spreading his pinions and saying his grace, 

Invoking a blessing like any D. D., 

With mute benedictions, our pious T. B. 

Full many a secret and lots of our slips 
He sees — but no scandal escapes from 'his lips; 
The slurs and the slanders by gossips begat, 
He spurns and eschews all such offal as that, 
Discreet Eastern Shoreman and model grandee, 
Philanthropic reformer, our honest T. B. 

'Tis good to be born with a bent arid a craze 

That find the poetic wherever it plays, 

The mink in the marsh, or the frog in his lair, 

The fair and the beautiful everywhere, 

The curves and gyrations o'er our cornfield and tree, 

And duties well done by our faithful T. B. 

They rave of the eagle with the eye on the sun 
They've given the nightingale sceptre and crown; 
I tell of another, a son of this Shore, 
Outrageously slighted by poets before, 
Unsung and unrhymed till now championed by me, 
Our kind benefactor, the busy T. B. 

He has his own tastes — we can't understand 'em; 

De gustibus non, yes, non disputandum ; 

But much to his credit, let me candidly say, 

He never writes doggerel such as mine is today; 

He turns up his nose at my fine minstrelsy — 

A critic disgusted — our old Turkey B. 



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